


Dying is Easy, Living is Hard

by Aini_NuFire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring Dean, Caring Sam, Castiel Has Self-Worth Issues, Castiel in the Bunker, Depressed Castiel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s11e22 We Happy Few, Episode: s11e23 Alpha and Omega, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Post-Arc: Lucifer Possessing Castiel, Post-Season/Series 11, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Self-Harm, Worried Winchesters, episode AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is saved; everything should be good. But apparently surviving is the easy part, and the Winchesters are about to realize that the fight to save their best friend has only just begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Miyth for the late night brainstorming session that took the first, rather lackluster draft of chapter 1 and helped me figure out a new game plan for the entire thing. And to 29Pieces for her feedback and input as this story has grown and evolved into what it is. Writing could take place in a vacuum, but then it wouldn't be much fun. ^_^
> 
> *Warnings*: First off, this fic starts with a TEMPORARY character death. And then it's going to visit some dark places—depression, suicidal thoughts, and self-destructive behavior. If any of that is a trigger for you, tread carefully. I'll post a warning in the chapter where it's the worst. But even though this fic is gonna explore the unpleasant side of these things, it won't be without hope and healing.  
> To everyone who is or has ever been in this darkness: you are not alone. Always keep fighting.
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters of Supernatural aren't mine, but since the show doesn't have the time to explore the implications of the character arc they established for Cas in season 11 (actually starting earlier), I'm going to. *Spoilers* for the last two episodes of season 11. Some lines from 11x23 Alpha and Omega.

Prologue

 

Castiel can’t move, can’t speak. He can only watch. Subjugating himself to Lucifer is more than just the physical torment of an archangel burning through his vessel. It is also the anguish of having to entrust the lives of those he holds most dear to someone else. Someone who is in every other sense an enemy.

But Lucifer is more valuable than him in this fight. Castiel isn’t strong enough to defeat the Darkness, and though Lucifer isn’t either, on his own, at least he adds a significant force to what the Winchesters have rallied to their cause.

Castiel fidgets with nervous anticipation as screams and crackling energy echo from outside the metal doors. The witches attacked first, and now the demons. Castiel can see smudges of black smoke swirling up and around through the oxidized windows in the warehouse. Lucifer is letting him watch. Or perhaps the Devil is too concentrated on his impending confrontation with Amara that he’s not spending any energy on keeping Castiel locked down. Not that Lucifer has to. Castiel knows this is the best option, and he won’t fight it.

The door swings open with a bang, and Amara staggers inside, bent double and clutching her stomach. She is covered in burns and lacerations, much like Lucifer had been after his imprisonment with her. Amara is gasping, and Castiel wishes he could see Dean, wants to make sure her pain isn’t somehow seeping through their strange bond and hurting the Winchester. But Lucifer isn’t looking Dean’s direction.

The archangel grips his spear and leaps forward to stab Amara through the stomach. It is not a killing blow, not yet. That is not their purpose here, though Castiel can feel Lucifer’s writhing urge to finish her off. Nevertheless, the archangel obeys when Chuck gestures for him to step back.

Castiel listens as Amara lays her accusations at God’s feet. Accusations that echo Lucifer’s own aired grievances from earlier that day. Chuck’s expression shifts between partial remorse and abject impenitence.

Castiel had borne Lucifer’s tantrum in silence, though a part of him had also wished for the chance to vent his feelings of abandonment and betrayal on his father. But in this moment, watching such a scene play out yet again, Castiel realizes it would mean nothing even if he got his chance. He would get the same reaction.

Perhaps he should feel bitterness and resentment at that, but in fact he is too tired to house such draining emotions. And in the grand scheme of things, it no longer matters.

Power crackles on the air, but before Chuck can finish transferring the Mark to Sam, Amara surges to her feet. Chuck is lifted off the ground, choking and flailing like a fish on a hook. Lucifer leaps forward, and Amara snaps at him. Castiel feels Lucifer get ripped from his body, tearing chunks of his own grace out too. Lucifer’s essence, glowing in the open air, is blown to smithereens, and the resulting explosion throws Castiel back against a support column. His own life force gives one last, dying spasm, and Castiel has only a split second to think— _this was always how it was supposed to end_.

* * *

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Dean stood in front of his mother’s grave. He didn’t visit often enough, not even on the anniversary of her death. Maybe because they were always too busy working a case, or averting the next apocalypse. He figured Mary, born and raised a hunter, would understand that. Or it was the fact that Dean knew her spirit wasn’t tied to this plane, and talking to a headstone wouldn’t bring him any closer to her.

But now, here at the end of the world, it seemed appropriate for him and Sam to gather in this place. Her death had been the catalyst that threw their family into the hunting world. And they hadn’t stopped since.

A light snowfall floated down around them, a herald of a dying sun. The flakes reminded Dean of ash.

 

_Dean stumbled toward Cas’s form lying slumped against the support column. He started to kneel down, just within arm’s reach in case Lucifer woke riled up, when his peripheral vision caught a smattering of dark streaks. Dean lifted his head, the oxygen punching from his lungs. Scorch marks were painted across the back wall. High, arching bands splayed out over concrete._

_Wing prints._

_He staggered to his feet, backing up to get a full view. Charcoal splays of black feathers branched up and out in an overlapping pattern._

_Two, there were two wing prints…_

 

Dean gave himself a small shake, trying to dispel the memory before it choked him. “I like it here,” he said suddenly, breaking the solemn silence. “For my ashes.”

Sam shifted with a soft rustle of fabric, jaw tight and eyes moist. This was hard for him, Dean knew. And he hated leaving his little brother alone to deal with it all, knew exactly what it felt like. Dean had barely managed after Sam jumped into the Pit six years ago. But Sam had always been more able to adjust than Dean had. Kid would be a mess for a while, but he’d pull himself together. Dean had to believe that.

“Bring…” Dean’s voice nearly cracked. “Bring Cas’s ashes here too. He deserves to be with family.”

Sam’s throat bobbed. “You’re asking me to bury two brothers in the same day.”

Hot moisture pricked at the corners of Dean’s eyes, and he tipped his head back to keep the tears from spilling free. “I know, it’s not right. I should…I wanted to be there, to give Cas a hunter’s funeral. But there’s no time.”

 

_Dean stared at Cas’s still figure lying on the bed. Chuck had zapped the angel’s body to his own room, because of course God knew which one belonged to Cas. But Chuck was too weak to bring him back. Cas was gone. Dead. Nonexistent, since angels didn’t even have a heaven to go to. It was where they were all going to end up shortly._

_“…a soul bomb.”_

_Dean tore his gaze away from Cas’s lifeless face to lift incredulous brows at his brother. “Come again?”_

 

“Dean,” Sam spoke softly. “You know you don’t have to do this.”

He shook his head. “‘Course I do. I just have to get close. I can do that. Okay? I can do that.” And he could. Whatever hold Amara had over him…she had killed Cas. That alone would give Dean the final push he needed.

He stuck a hand in his pocket and fished out the Impala’s keys. Sam gave them a look before shaking his head in denial.

“Come on, you know the drill,” Dean pushed, avoiding direct eye contact. “No chick-flick moments.”

A muscle in Sam’s jaw ticked. He lifted a hand toward the keys, hesitated, and then finally took them. “Yeah, you love chick flicks,” he tried to joke.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, you’re right, dude, come here.” He pulled his brother into a hug. Dean had always known this life would be his end. He just hadn’t expected the fanfare and the chance to say goodbye.

He honestly didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

Pulling away from Sam, Dean turned to face his mother’s grave once more. “I know this life was the last thing you wanted for us,” he whispered. “But, uh…” Dean rubbed a hand down his face. It was stupid, talking out loud as though she could hear him. He didn’t even know why he was doing it, especially in front of Sam. Guess impending death was making him nostalgic. “I hope you can be proud of what I’m about to do.”

A lump in his throat threatened to cut off his air, and Dean swallowed hard.

“She is,” Sam murmured. He placed two fingers to his lips and then to the top of the headstone.

Dean nodded, hoping it was true. He turned to face the others. It was now or never. “Okay, let’s do this.”

* * *

Dean blinked as he found himself inside some kind of open structure. It had windows, though no roof, and contained a stone path splitting a lush garden. Well, lush except for the blackened flowers withering under a dying sun.

“Dean.”

He turned around. Amara was standing in front of a dormant fountain, expression oddly closed off.

“How did you find me?” she asked stiffly.

Dean resisted the urge to roll his shoulder in discomfort. “Does it matter? I’m here to give you what you want. Me.”

Amara lifted her brows, seemingly unimpressed. “That’s a change,” she said dryly.

Dean shook his head, and started to move forward, one slow step at a time. “Well, I can’t just watch the world, my friends…” His voice almost hitched. “And my family die. So, if becoming a part of you takes me away from that, then I’m in.”

“You… And that bomb in your chest?” Amara cocked an eyebrow. “You think I can’t taste the power coming off of you? Please. The problem is you’ve never been able to hurt me. So what makes this time different?”

“You killed my brother.”

Her forehead creased in confusion.

Dean’s fingers twitched with the urge to set off the bomb, but he didn’t. Not yet.

“Castiel,” he nearly growled. “The angel you didn’t give a second thought to when you killed Lucifer.”

Amara scoffed. “And why should I have?”

Dean clenched a fist. “Because Cas was my brother as much as Sam is.”

“I got the sense you weren’t thrilled with his decision to let Lucifer possess him,” Amara countered.

“No,” Dean allowed. “No, I wasn’t. But no matter the mistakes he’s made, he’s still family. I need him. And I need Sam. Just like they need me.”

Amara regarded him for a prolonged moment. “So you’ve come for revenge,” she said simply.

Dean opened his mouth, but then hesitated. He’d come to save the world, to save the last remaining members of his family. But revenge? No. He’d been down that road before, and it never led anywhere good. Plus, Cas wouldn’t want that to be Dean’s last act on earth.

“No,” he said quietly, shoulders sagging. “Revenge will get you out of bed in the morning. And when you get it, it feels great.” He paused. “For about five minutes.”

Amara flicked a wary gaze at him.

“No,” he repeated. “I’m here because I don’t have a choice. What you’re doing to the sun—”

“That’s not me,” she interrupted, then let out a huffed breath. “With my brother getting weaker, the scales are tipping. Away from light.”

Dean mentally reeled back in understanding. “And into darkness.”

“Into nothing.” Amara shook her head. “When God’s gone, the universe, everything, will cease to exist. Including me.” She took a seat on the rim of the fountain. “My brother betrayed me. He locked me away for billions of years. He sent you to execute me!” Steely eyes flashed dangerously.

“No, no,” Dean gushed out. “No, he zapped me here, yes, but he didn’t want this. This wasn’t his idea. You’re family. He doesn’t want you dead. He doesn’t want any of this.” Dean hesitated. He’d come here to kill her, to save the world. To die in a blaze of glory. But…what if there was another way?

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked carefully.

Amara glanced up sharply. “No! I just wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make him pay.”

Dean nodded in understanding. “You wanted revenge.” _Crap, was he really doing this?_ “I’ve been there. Me and Sam, and even Cas, we have had our fair share of fights. More than our share. But no matter how bad it got, we always made it right, _because_ we’re family. And when everything goes to crap, that’s all you’ve got. Family!” His heart twinged at all those he’d lost over the years, the people he’d loved who went beyond the bonds of blood.

“And you might be an all powerful being, but I think you’re human where it counts.” Dean swallowed hard. “You simply need your brother.”

Amara let out a derisive sound. “Just stop.”

“You don’t want to be alone,” Dean pressed. “Not really.” He took another step closer. “Hell, maybe that’s why you wanted me. But deep down, you didn’t really want me. ‘Cause I’m not him. Maybe I can kill you. Or maybe I can’t. Maybe if I pull this trigger we all live happily ever after, or maybe we all die bloody, or maybe it doesn’t matter! Because maybe there’s a different way. So I’m gonna ask you again: put aside the rage, put aside the hate. And you tell me, what do you _want_?”

Amara lifted her gaze to meet his, eyes suspiciously moist. At least she seemed to be actually wrestling with the question. Maybe Dean didn’t have to detonate the bomb…but was he doing this because his connection to her was overruling his rationality? Or because this was the right thing to do?

_I wish you were here to tell me that, Cas_.

Amara suddenly stood up and whirled toward the other side of the fountain. Dean’s eyes widened when he saw Chuck sitting there.

“Why did you bring me here?” Chuck demanded, stumbling to his feet in alarm.

“Brother, I…” Amara tilted her head back toward Dean in uncertainty. She seemed so…lost, in that moment. Lost and hurting.

Dean nodded his encouragement. He’d played Dr. Phil between God and Lucifer; why not God and his sister next?

Amara turned back to Chuck and took a deep breath. “In the beginning, it was just you and me, and we were family. I loved you, and I thought…I _knew_ , that you loved me.”

“I did.” Chuck moved closer. “I do.”

Amara shook her head and gestured to the garden. “But then you went and made all these other things. I hated them. I hated you for needing something else.” She looked away, pain evident on her face. “Something that wasn’t me. And then, you locked me away, and all I could think about was making you suffer.”

Chuck took another step. “You had your reasons.”

“I did,” Amara agreed fervently. Her eyes were glistening again. “I thought revenge would make me happy. But I was wrong.” She cast another look around the garden. “What you’ve made…it’s beautiful. It took me a long time to see that. I know we can’t go back to the way things were. I don’t want to. But I wish…I wish that we could just be family again.”

Chuck smiled tightly. “I do too.” He held out his hand, and Amara took it. Light began to glow from between their palms. The sky grew bright, and Dean looked up as everything was enveloped in a blazing white aura. He lifted an arm to shield his eyes, hoping that wasn’t the sun exploding…

But then the light faded, and instead of the red haze of a dying star, everything seemed restored to normal. Amara’s hand was on Chuck’s chest, pouring energy into him. God took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders as color suffused his pallor in a healthy glow.

Dean couldn’t even form words. Had it actually worked?

Chuck turned to face him. “I think, we’re just gonna go away for a while, and…”

Dean nodded, still slightly stunned. “Hey, yeah, family meeting. I get it.”

Amara actually looked…lighter, like a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She seemed…happy. And Dean wanted to be happy for her, he did. But he knew the weight of reality that was waiting for him when this was all over, and part of him had been hoping he wouldn’t have to face it.

“But first.” Chuck walked toward him.

Dean stiffened as Chuck held a hand over his heart. He felt something tug at his core, and then all that buzzing energy he’d been carrying started slurping out into Chuck’s hand. The last of the souls vacated his body, and Dean gasped in a harsh breath.

“Better?” Chuck asked.

Dean wasn’t sure. “What about us? What about earth?”

“Earth will be fine. It’s got you. And Sam.”

Dean stared at him incredulously. That was it? Since when was the earth in Dean’s and Sam’s hands a _good_ thing? Besides…they didn’t have Cas with them anymore. Unless… Dean’s throat constricted around the words he couldn’t seem to form as he watched Chuck walk back toward Amara and take his sister’s hand. She actually smiled.

“Dean…” Amara said, almost shyly. “You gave me what I needed most.”

Should he say, ‘you’re welcome’?

“I want to do the same for you.”

Dean didn’t have time to ask what that meant before she and Chuck began melting into swirling smoke of black and white. The two columns funneled up together and dissipated into the sky, leaving Dean feeling alone and empty. He stood in that garden for a long time, struggling to process that he hadn’t died, that the world was actually saved without a bigger catastrophe being unleashed.

But everything wasn’t okay. There was yet another hole in Dean’s heart. One he’d have to figure out how to live with. And given he hadn’t done such a great job the last time Cas had been dead, Dean honestly had no idea how he was supposed to manage. At least Sam would be spared part of that agony with Dean not being dead. And now they both could give Cas that hunter’s funeral like the angel-turned-brother deserved.

Dean finally pulled out his cell phone and dialed Sam’s number. The line clicked before the first ring even finished.

“… _Dean?_ ”

His heart cracked at the desperate hope in his brother’s voice.

“Yeah, Sammy, it’s me. We’re all good here. Can you come pick me up?”

* * *

Castiel lurched upright with a harsh, gasping breath. The oxygen filling his lungs burned, and he rolled onto his side as violent coughs wracked his frame. What…what was this?

He blinked dazedly at the beige coverlet underneath him. He was on a bed. In the bunker. Castiel looked up at the familiar grey walls, old wooden furniture, and aluminum desk lamp sitting on a small writing desk. He was in the bunker, and…he was alive.

Castiel swung his legs over the side of the bed and surged to his feet. His vision blurred and he nearly pitched forward onto the floor, but managed to catch himself against the wall. His head throbbed, every fiber in his body aching.

His body. Lucifer was gone. Castiel remembered Amara ripping him out…

Castiel jolted upright again. What happened to Dean and Sam? He stumbled toward the door and into the hall. Everything was so quiet. Castiel staggered into the war room, but no one was there. The entire bunker seemed empty save for him.

He turned toward the stairs leading up and out. If the world was ending, all he’d have to do was look outside. Yet the moment he took a step forward, he was suddenly seized with an overwhelming, vice-like terror. It compressed upon his chest, crushing his ribs, and Castiel found himself doubled over with hands on his knees as he sucked in desperate breaths. No, not again. Not this again.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the paralyzing fear to stop. He was an _angel_ , dammit.

Except, turning his senses inward, Castiel felt the tattered edges of his grace. When Lucifer had been ripped from him, the archangel had had his claws hooked deep into Castiel, and the separation had been violent. It reminded Castiel of how his grace felt after Rowena’s spell had twisted and poisoned it.

_Why_ was he alive? God must have brought him back again, which meant Amara hadn’t hurt Chuck too badly as Castiel had thought in his last moments. But then where was everyone?

Straightening with great effort, Castiel took a forced step toward the stairs. Each one after that was agony, but he pushed. He needed to know.

He cracked the door open, letting in a wash of brilliant daylight. He blinked as his eyes adjusted, taking in the blue sky, trees across the gravel drive. The world seemed intact. Had Amara been defeated after all?

Castiel backed up and eased the door shut. He turned back to the empty bunker. Were Sam and Dean…dead? Or, were they just…out, after having saved the world? Castiel should look for them.

But the moment that thought entered his mind, it was quickly followed by a crushing heaviness upon his shoulders. He was alive. Again. He’d thought for sure this last time would be it, that it would all be over. He’d…he’d wanted it to be over.

But God had brought him back. That, or Castiel was simply cursed. Cursed never to find peace, no matter how much penance he tried to do. And if Sam and Dean were dead, and he was alone…

It was too much. And he was just…so tired.

Castiel sank onto the top step and dropped his head into his hands. _Why?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's subscribed, left kudos, and commented! I'm so glad you're excited about this story. Btw, did the past four days seem to drag by for anyone else? Feels like it's been more than a week since I posted Chapter 1. Uy.
> 
> More lines from 11x23 Alpha and Omega; they're not mine.

 

Dean pulled the Impala up outside the bunker and turned the engine off. He didn't remove the keys from the ignition, though, or start to get out. There was a mountain of grief climbing in his chest, and it would only get worse when he walked through that door.

Sam was a silent statue in the passenger seat, gaze fixed on his hands in his lap. He'd been smiling like a friggin' idiot when he'd picked up Dean, and it wasn't like Dean could contain his sheer relief and joy at seeing his brother again, either. But the closer they got to the bunker, the more it sunk in that they were missing a crucial component to their family reunion. The world was saved yet again. But instead of a victory celebration, they'd be attending a funeral.

Sam rolled his shoulder. "I kinda thought God would…" He trailed off miserably.

Dean's chest constricted. "Yeah, me too. He and Amara disappeared before I could ask." He'd been hoping, so hard. After all, how many times had God brought Cas back before? Dean thought, in the brief moment after Amara had healed him, that Chuck would do it again.

But apparently he was too busy working things out with his sister to remember the angel that had sacrificed himself in every way possible in order to help them succeed.

Sam glanced out the window at the door, then back at Dean, voice soft and commiserative. "He's waiting for us."

Right. Waiting for Sam and Dean to take care of his body. Angels didn't have souls that could become ghosts like humans, so they didn't really have to worry about burning the body. But Cas was family, and he should have a hunter's pyre. And…and Dean would take his best friend's ashes to where their mother was buried. It was peaceful there, and he hoped Cas would like it.

Except, angels didn't have an afterlife, and there was nothing left of Cas to care what they did with his empty shell.

Dean shoved his door open and climbed out. Sam followed. The old bunker door grated open with a metallic creak as they entered. Over the years it had become a familiar, comforting sound, the sound of home. Today, though, it felt dark and ominous.

Dean descended the stairs with heavy steps. He didn't really want to go to the dormitory wing yet. Maybe, maybe if he kept putting it off, God might remember, might come back, just for a second…

A figure emerged from the library, and Dean came to an abrupt stop. He felt his mouth drop open in stunned disbelief, and for a moment wondered if his brain was playing tricks on him, taking his deepest, desperate desire and projecting it because reality was just too painful to deal with.

But then Sam sucked in a sharp breath beside him. " _Cas_?"

Cas stood under the archway, staring at both of them hard. "You're alive."

Dean's brows rose sharply. "Us? _You're_ alive!" He surged forward and pulled the angel into the tightest hug, chick-flick moment be dammed. Cas was here and _alive_ and Dean felt that swollen mound of grief pop like a balloon.

He was so friggin' relieved that he almost didn't notice how Cas was rigid in the embrace, how it was a delayed moment before the angel reached one hand up to pat Dean's back somewhat half-heartedly. He pulled away to give Cas a once-over, but then Sam moved in for a hug as well.

Cas did the same thing, standing awkwardly and limply in the embrace. Sam threw Dean a confused look over the angel's shoulder, to which Dean just shrugged. Guy was probably in shock or something.

"What happened with the Darkness?" Cas asked when Sam stepped back.

"Well, she almost killed God," Dean started to explain, and the memory of Cas's wing prints still made his throat tighten up. "And then the sun started dying. But we figured out a way to take her out with a soul bomb."

"I actually have you to thank for that idea," Sam interrupted, offering Cas a small smile. "I remembered when you were collecting souls for power to fight the civil war in Heaven."

Cas's jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything, so Dean assumed he was waiting for the story to continue.

"I had to be the bomb because I was the only one who could get close to Amara."

"You sacrificed yourself," Cas put in, voice sounding oddly hollow.

Dean rolled his shoulder. "Well, yeah. But turned out I didn't need to. Amara and God worked things out. She healed Chuck, which fixed the sun, and then the two of them just…went away, I guess." Dean shrugged. "Chuck seemed to think the world would be fine in our capable hands," he added with a wry look.

Sam shook his head in mild amusement before turning back to Cas. "At least he brought you back before taking off again."

Cas still wasn't showing much of a reaction, which Dean thought was a little weird. Also strange was Chuck not saying anything before he left. Or not bringing Cas straight to the park. If Chuck was getting in touch with his family feels again, shouldn't he have had the decency to say goodbye to his own kid?

Dean straightened as a memory echoed in his head.

_"Cas was my brother. I need him."_

_"You gave me what I needed most. I want to do the same for you."_

He swallowed nervously. Oh. "Actually, I think it was Amara."

Sam quirked a confused brow, while Cas just stared at him blankly.

Dean cleared his throat. "She wanted to thank me, for helping her talk to her brother or whatever. I didn't know what she meant at the time…"

Maybe that explained Cas's detached behavior. This resurrection could have been different from the times when it was God's doing, and maybe he needed a bit more time to readjust. But the lackluster response was rapidly dousing Dean's enthusiasm at seeing his best friend frickin' alive again.

"So what now?" Cas finally said. And yeah, he sounded tired.

"Now we have definitely earned a break," Dean replied. He clapped his hands together. "I'm thinking a nice big, deep-fried dinner. And a whole apple pie."

Sam crossed his arms. "You know that isn't everyone's idea of a reward?"

Dean had a retort ready when he caught Cas's eyes dropping to the floor, almost despondently. Maybe they shouldn't drag a newly resurrected Cas out to dinner.

"Why don't we get pizza and stay in," Dean said instead. "Catch up on some movies."

"Sounds good," Sam agreed. "But we're getting at least one vegetarian."

"Tomato sauce qualifies as a vegetable." Dean rejoined.

Sam snorted. "It does not." He pulled his phone out and started walking away to place the order for pick-up.

"Come on," Dean said to Cas. "Let's set up that projector in the library again." He frowned slightly at Cas's silence, but the angel nevertheless turned to follow him. Cas was probably wiped after everything. They all were. Which was why they were gonna take some time to recoup.

For once, the world wasn't ending, and they were all together. Everything was good.

* * *

Castiel sat slumped in a chair as moving pictures flashed across the screen in front of his eyes. The Winchesters had picked some science fiction film to watch, something recent that Metatron hadn't downloaded into Castiel's brain. He wasn't paying attention, though. While he would have liked nothing better than to drown himself in the distraction, the revelation of his resurrection had left him reeling.

Amara—the _Darkness_ —had brought him back. Not God. Which meant this time wasn't a punishment. It was just a curse. His poor misfortune to be constantly thrust back into living, to burden those around him. Particularly the Winchesters. Castiel shouldn't even be here, casting a dark pall across their celebratory recreation.

But he didn't know where he would go instead. He had no wings, no means of transportation. And the idea of climbing those steps to the outside sent his stomach into knots. It wasn't the first time he'd felt this way, but in the past there had always been some big threat, some cause he could throw himself into with enough force of will. Not this time. And that was probably a good thing, because it wasn't as though Castiel improved matters any when he did try to help.

But he didn't know what he was supposed to do now. He hadn't given any thought to life after Lucifer—hadn't expected it to begin with. Why did this keep happening to him?

A shadow fell over him, and Castiel startled to find Dean standing right in front of him, expression pinched in concern. Castiel realized the room was silent, the movie over and the screen back on the Netflix menu. Sam, sitting on the sofa to his left, was also watching him worriedly.

Castiel rolled his shoulder awkwardly. "Sorry, what?"

Dean's frown deepened. "Are you okay?"

Castiel hesitated to answer, his typical 'I'm fine' disintegrating into ash on his tongue. No, no he was not okay. But that wasn't what Dean wanted to hear.

"Cas…"

He blinked, realizing he hadn't responded. They both looked even more concerned. _Burden_. _Do better_.

Dean pulled a chair over. The sound of wood scraping across the floor grated Castiel's ears and made him flinch.

The older Winchester cleared his throat. "You know, I've been so frickin' relieved that you're alive, I didn't think to ask how you're doing. After the whole Lucifer thing."

Castiel shook his head and looked away. "I was just…so stupid."

Dean canted his head. "Yeah, kind of."

" _Dean_ ," Sam reprimanded under his breath.

"It's alright, Sam," Castiel responded. "You two have every right to be angry. Lucifer has hurt you both in the past. Sam, you suffered the most under his torment, sacrificed yourself to re-cage him. And I let him out. For nothing."

"No, no, no," Dean rushed to say, and Castiel was surprised at the lack of recrimination in his voice. "You were right, Cas. He was our best shot against Amara. And you stepped up. Sam and I wouldn't have done that."

"Well, it didn't work, and you had to sacrifice yourself anyway."

"It came pretty damn close to working," Dean argued. "And it weakened Amara. We needed that. I just…" He ran a hand down his face. "Lucifer had been walking around for _weeks_ , pretending to be you. And we…"

Castiel lowered his gaze. "I endangered you." The one, unforgivable thing he always managed to do, even when he was trying to save them.

"I was more worried about _you_ ," Dean said. "Yeah, everything worked out in the end, but shit, Cas, this was _Lucifer_. I don't even know half the things he could have done to you."

"He needed my vessel," Castiel countered.

"It didn't have to be _you_."

"You would never let Sam—"

"We could've found someone else."

Castiel frowned, not quite understanding. Find someone else? Someone…stronger? Someone who could easily replace him.

"I _was_ just trying to help," he offered.

Yet even as he said it, Castiel knew that wasn't the whole truth. He had wanted to help, yes, even though he wasn't strong enough to really offer much. But at the same time, he was just so tired of fighting—of fighting and failing—that he didn't want to continue. Letting Lucifer possess him had seemed like a good way to accomplish both.

"You do help, Cas," Dean said.

In some ways, he supposed. But less and less over the years.

Sam shifted on the couch to sit sideways and face him. "Cas…I know how cruel Lucifer can be. He likes to play mind games…"

"He mostly left me alone," Castiel interrupted. "Well, aside from punishing me for stopping him from hurting you that one time."

A muscle in Sam's jaw ticked, and Castiel felt a wave of guilt for having caused the younger Winchester more pain and torment at the hands of the one being he feared most in the universe.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he said weakly.

Sam shook his head. "It's okay, Cas. You stopped him." He hesitated. "How'd he punish you?"

"It doesn't matter." With the time Lucifer spent burning through his vessel and corrupting his grace, the brief moment of inflicted torture had been mild in comparison.

"If you wanna talk…" Sam started again.

"There's no need." Castiel rose swiftly, not wanting to dwell on this topic any longer, but his vision blurred and a pulse of pain spiked through his head. He swayed.

"Hey, whoa." Dean surged up to brace his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Castiel pressed a palm to his temple. "I have a headache."

"Wait, what?" Dean's voice rose in alarm. "Are you human?"

"No, but…" Castiel gritted his teeth. "My grace is…weak. Battered, from Lucifer and when Amara ripped him out."

Now Sam was on his feet and standing close. Too close. Was the air growing thinner?

"You mean Amara didn't restore you when she brought you back?" Sam asked, tone sharp and indignant.

Castiel ducked his gaze. _Useless_. _Again_. He could never do anything right. Couldn't die right. Couldn't live right…

"Uh," Dean stammered. "I guess she didn't think about it. I mean, she was just learning how to care about creation. She probably didn't realize…" Dean's eyes turned apologetic. "I'm sorry, Cas."

As though it was the Winchester's fault, which it wasn't. Dean hadn't asked for this, hadn't asked to be saddled with a crippled angel yet again.

"I should…" Castiel took a tentative step forward, only to stop. What should he do?

"Yeah," Dean said, as though he knew what Castiel meant to say, even when he himself didn't. "Yeah, you should rest. You want to lie down in your room?"

His room? Oh, Dean must mean the place he'd woken up in. Castiel wasn't sure he wanted to go back in there, though. But it wasn't like there was another option, and so he nodded.

Dean patted his back, and Sam gave him an encouraging, yet wan smile. Castiel could feel their eyes boring into his retreating back as he made his way into the hallway and toward the bedrooms.

Dean regretted that Castiel's grace hadn't been fixed. Castiel supposed he should have felt something similar, but the truth was he didn't think it would have made a difference. Even if his grace had been fully restored, Castiel didn't think it would make him _whole_. He would always be broken, one way or another. And he didn't know what to do anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Sam jogged into the kitchen with his laptop, browser opened to a news article. "Hey, I found us a case."

Dean looked up from the monstrosity he was putting together at the counter.

Sam groaned. "The Elvis again, really?"

"Don't be a hater." Dean licked bacon grease off his fingers before setting the last donut on top of the cheeseburger. "And what are you doing looking for a case? We're supposed to be taking some time off."

"Yeah, I know, but…" Sam sighed, and put his laptop on the island counter. "It's been a few days and…look, we're hunters. It's what we do. Just because there's no big apocalypse doesn't mean there aren't still monsters out there. And, actually, I think getting back to basics will be nice."

Dean threw him a wry look as he picked up the disgusting burger and shoved it into his mouth. Sam grimaced.

"It's only a few hours away, victims with their hearts missing. Werewolf job. Easy."

Dean shrugged in agreement. "A'right," he mumbled around a full mouth before actually swallowing. "Guess there's only so many times I can clean and polish my guns."

"You think?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Where's Cas?"

"I don't know, I think down in the archives again."

Dean shook his head in exasperation. "Only a nerd would count cataloging ancient crap as R&R."

Sam shot him a bitch-face. "Yeah, but there's some dangerous stuff in that wing. You know he got burned by some charmed object that went off when he touched it?"

That hadn't been fun for Sam to walk in on—an explosion of light that reminded him too much of an angel dying, and then finding a smoking relic and Cas clutching a burned hand to his chest and just staring at the thing as though it had somehow offended him.

"Like our lives aren't dangerous enough," Dean muttered. "We're pretty much bunking in a supernatural missile silo." He flicked a wary look at Sam. "Cas is okay, though, right? He seemed fine."

"Yeah…"

Cas hadn't said anything when Sam cleaned and bandaged his hand. Actually, Cas had been oddly quiet the past few days, ever since he'd been brought back without Lucifer possessing him. Sam had tried talking to him again, thinking maybe Cas needed to process what he'd gone through as a condom for his psychotic brother. But Cas hadn't reciprocated. So getting out would probably do them all some good.

Leaving Dean to finish his Elvis burger, Sam headed down to the archives in search of their wayward angel. Sure enough, Cas was in one of the storage rooms that was marked 'hazardous.' Sam drew to a stop, frowning at Cas's lax posture. He had one hand resting on top of a crate, but was actually staring at the wall.

"Uh, Cas?"

There was a delayed moment before the angel flinched and turned to look over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Sam entered cautiously, careful not to accidentally bump any of the boxes stacked up around them. "Dude, why are you spending so much time in here?"

Cas turned away with a shrug. "You and Dean should know what resources are available to you."

"Yeah, but, if half of these are as dangerous as they sound, we probably shouldn't go anywhere near them." He'd meant it kind of as a half-joke, though it hadn't really come out that way.

Cas's hand on top of the crate furled into a fist. "I'm sorry, I should have realized…you don't want me to accidentally release something."

Sam blinked in bewilderment. "What? No, that's not what I was thinking at all. I just meant that maybe you should take some extra precautions to protect yourself. We don't need a repeat of two days ago." He lowered a pointed look at Cas's other hand, still wrapped in bandages. Sam had checked it yesterday, and it was healing faster than a human would, but not as quickly as angelic healing had once granted Cas. Maybe because it was a magical injury.

Sam waited for Cas to say something in turn, but as the angel was often doing lately, Cas stayed silent. Sam shook his head. "Anyway, I found us a case nearby. Probably a werewolf. You should come with."

Cas glanced up sharply, brow furrowing as though he had to give it deep, serious thought. Which, really? Sam frowned as he watched Cas fidget.

"Alright," Cas finally said. "When do we leave?"

Something about this whole exchange was striking Sam as weird, but he didn't exactly know how to broach it. "Half an hour."

Cas nodded, and stepped away from the artifacts, walking past Sam and into the corridor.

Shaking his head, Sam closed up the storage room and then went to pack his go-bag. Once done, he stopped by the kitchen to eat an apple before they hit the road. Dean had finished his colossal burger, thank goodness, and was probably getting his own stuff together.

Sam headed for the stairs, duffel slung over one shoulder, and slowed to a stop when he spotted Cas at the base of the staircase, one hand on the rail, the other wrapped around his stomach. His shoulders were rising and falling as though he were having trouble breathing.

"Cas?" Sam hurried forward, dropping his bag on the floor with a thump.

Cas actually jolted, and he shot a startled look over his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked worriedly.

Cas straightened. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Sam narrowed his gaze at the angel's pale complexion and the sweat beading along his hairline. Could Cas be coming down with a bug? He'd said his grace was weakened, but hadn't really explained what all that entailed.

"I'll tell Dean to call another hunter to look into the case," Sam said.

"No," Cas bit out. "It's fine, Sam."

"Dude, if you're getting sick—"

"I'm not. My grace isn't that weakened."

Sam frowned, crossing his arms. "Okay, then what's going on? Did you come across another spelled object in the archives?"

Cas's jaw ticked. "No." He sucked in a sharp breath and started up the stairs without another word.

Sam stared after him, completely baffled. _What the hell was that?_

Dean shuffled past him a minute later. "Earth to Sam…thought you were jonesing for this hunt?"

"Yeah, no," Sam stammered, scooping up his gear. "Let's go."

He followed Dean upstairs to the garage where Cas was waiting by the Impala. The angel avoided looking at either him or Dean as he climbed into the backseat—or maybe Sam was just imagining it.

They spent most of the drive in silence, save for the classic rock playing through the speakers. It wasn't exactly comfortable, though. Sam caught Dean throwing surreptitious glances at Cas through the rearview mirror. So his brother had also noticed something was up with the angel. They should probably discuss it when they finished with this case.

* * *

It was a typical hunt. After some questions to local authorities and getting a geographic read of the area, they'd tracked the werewolf into the woods. And okay, 'typical' Winchester hunt meant something had to go to shit, and that something was getting ambushed by a werewolf _pack_. A pack of pure-bloods who brought out the partially shifted claws and teeth the moment the hunters attacked.

Sam fired a silver bullet that scored a gash across one werewolf's shoulder, but it didn't slow the guy down. His finger squeezed the trigger again, just as a flash of tan leaped into the charging werewolf's path. The report cracked the air like thunder, stopping Sam's heart. _Shit!_

The bullet splintered the side of a tree trunk inches from Cas's head. The angel didn't even react as he swiped his angel blade at the werewolf. For that split second, Sam couldn't breathe, blood roaring in his ears as the shock of almost shooting Cas slammed into him. He didn't see the werewolf coming at him from the side until it snarled right before pouncing.

Sam twisted out of the way instinctively, losing his balance and careening to the ground. Claws raked across his upper arm, which erupted with fire. He tightened his grip on his gun as he hit the dirt and rolled, landing on his back and aiming up. He shot the werewolf right between the eyes, and its body thudded to the ground.

Sam whipped his head around, spotting Dean in close combat with another werewolf. He'd had to switch to his silver knife, dodging claws and fangs as he tried to get a good strike in. Cas was several feet away, fighting the last two werewolves. For a moment, Sam couldn't understand what he was seeing—Cas was attacking with his angel blade, but he wasn't even trying to dodge the blows the werewolves threw at him. It even looked as though Cas stepped _into_ the path of a werewolf's claws. The angel barely made a sound as razor talons slashed down his chest, and he drove his blade into the monster's sternum, but the move left his back exposed to the last wolf.

Sam lifted his gun, and was horrified by how shaky his aim was. But Cas wasn't turning around as the last wolf lunged, and Sam forced himself to pull the trigger. The bullet ripped through the beast's heart, driving him backward against a tree where he slumped to the forest floor.

Silence fell over the woods, until it was broken by Dean shouting Sam's name.

"Sam!" Dean dropped to his knees beside him and did a quick scan for injuries.

Sam ignored him, pushing himself to his feet and staggering toward Cas. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

Cas looked over, face expressionless. "What was what?"

"I almost shot you!" Dammit, his hands were still shaking. Sam shoved his gun into his waistband.

Cas continued to stare at him blankly. "The werewolf could have hurt you."

"I had time to get off another round. And you should know better than to jump _into_ my line of fire!"

Dean was throwing bewildered looks between them. "What?" He turned a sharp glare on Cas. "What's he talking about?"

Cas didn't answer. He was being strangely calm and disinterested about the whole thing, which just pissed Sam off more.

"I had that one, Cas. Why didn't you take the one that was coming up _behind_ me?" He gestured to his bleeding arm.

That finally got a reaction, and Cas's face pinched as he narrowed his eyes on the wound. The angel glanced around at the werewolf bodies, brow furrowed as though he were replaying the scene and trying to piece it together.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice strained. He lifted his arm, hand outstretched to Sam's shoulder. There was a small, brief sputter of golden light, and the pain disappeared. Sam glanced down at healed flesh showing through a tear in his jacket and shirt sleeve.

"Dammit," Dean muttered. "I should've known you weren't ready."

Cas took a step back, looking devastated. Sam frowned. Cas's reactions weren't right—understated when they shouldn't be and more extreme where it wasn't warranted.

Then he noticed the growing red stain on the angel's torso.

"Shit." Sam surged into Cas's personal space and pulled aside the trench coat, revealing several jagged tears in his suit jacket and shirt that were seeping crimson.

"Can you heal that?" Dean asked worriedly.

Cas glanced down at the wounds, expression detached in a way that frightened Sam, though he couldn't say why.

"Cas, you're losing too much blood." Sam gave him a small shake, trying to snap him out of this strange stupor.

Cas wrenched away from him, squinted hard, and in the next instant, the blood and tears were gone. Cas's complexion paled a degree, and he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment as though woozy. "There, happy?"

Sam just stared at him incredulously. What the hell was his problem?

"No," Dean snapped. "You need to be more careful. Your grace isn't at full strength, remember? Which means you could get yourself killed."

"Then that would be my problem," Cas retorted.

Now Dean turned a shade whiter, looking as though he'd been punched in the kidneys. Sam glanced between them, feeling as though he were suddenly missing something. And what the hell kind of response was that? Cas getting killed would be his problem? Did he have no sensitivity to the fact that a week ago he _had been dead_? And that it had nearly broken Dean?

Dean's expression hardened. "Go sit in the car while Sam and I clean up this mess."

"I can—"

"No." Dean spun away from him, clearly signaling an end to the argument.

A muscle in Cas's jaw ticked, and he flicked a wary look at Sam before turning to head down the path to where they'd left the Impala. Sam stared after him.

Okay, he and Dean needed to have a serious talk. Soon. Because something was definitely wrong here, and they needed to figure out what.

* * *

Castiel sat in the backseat of the Impala, watching the vista scroll by as though the earth were turning at seventy-miles-an-hour and he was the one not moving. It only added to his growing headache and churning nausea. Healing Sam and then himself had taken more energy than he'd had to spare. He wouldn't have bothered with his own wounds to begin with if Dean hadn't been so angry. As it was, Castiel had also only mended the shirt and outer layer of his coat, the pieces that were visible to the Winchesters.

He fingered the slits in his suit jacket where the werewolf's claws had ripped through the seams. Fixing them would take too much energy, both physical and mental, and Castiel no longer had the wherewithal to care. The tears were an apt metaphor, he thought. These clothes were like a second skin as much as this vessel was, and underneath them he was as ragged and worn as the frayed threads unraveling between his fingers.

Neither Dean nor Sam had said a word after returning from disposing the werewolf bodies, and the car had been fraught with a heavy silence for the past hour and a half. They were right to be angry, of course. Castiel had endangered Sam, endangered them both. He hadn't meant to. He never _meant_ to.

Yet that was always what he managed to do. He'd raised Sam from the Cage, but neglected his soul. He'd broken Sam's wall, causing the Winchester to live through months of torment under Lucifer's hallucinations. He'd gone to help Metatron, rather than stay with Dean and save Sam from completing the Trials. He had let Lucifer out of the Cage again, and the Devil had nearly ripped apart Sam's soul.

That didn't even cover his colossal mistakes, the ones that endangered the entire world, that left rivers of blood and burned wings in his wake. Or all the ways he'd let Dean down over the years. Castiel couldn't do anything right. He was worse than not useful; he was a liability.

He should leave, protect the Winchesters from himself. But when Dean pulled the Impala into the bunker's garage that evening, Castiel didn't get out and turn back toward the driveway. No, he watched the large metal door close behind them, sealing Castiel in to what was simultaneously a prison and sanctuary. And he hated himself for it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter gets dark. Possible trigger for self-harm.

 

Dean fingered the bottleneck of his beer, staring at the scuffs and chinks in the wood of the kitchen table. He was already on his second after they'd arrived home that night. Cas had gone straight to his room without a word, and Dean had headed for the alcohol. Sitting in the half dark room, he kept replaying the events of that afternoon over and over in his head. He hadn't seen Cas jump in front of Sam's line of fire, or how the action had left Sam open to another wolf's attack. And it wasn't as though Dean thought Sam would lie about that, but it just seemed so unbelievable, so uncharacteristic of Cas.

Or…did it? Sure, the dude had pulled some crazy stunts in the past, things that had sometimes put the Winchesters at risk. But that wasn't what was twisting Dean's stomach into knots right now.

Footsteps shuffled on the steps, followed by the light flicking on. Dean winced.

Sam stood in the entryway, hand still hovering over the light switch. "We need to talk."

Dean knocked back a swig of beer. He wasn't drunk enough for this.

Sam came down the steps and took a seat across the table. "Something's wrong with Cas," he said in a hushed voice.

Dean snorted. "You think?"

Sam glanced over his shoulder as though afraid said angel would walk in on them. But, really, Cas hardly came into the kitchen anymore.

"Dean," Sam said, tone grave. "What if…what if when Amara brought him back, she did it wrong?"

He blinked in bewilderment. "What?"

"You said so yourself that she was just starting to learn to appreciate creation. And she didn't restore Cas's grace. Maybe…this is like when I was brought back soulless. Maybe Amara left out some important pieces."

Dean shook his head. "No, Sam, that's not it."

Sam spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "Then how do you explain his weird behavior since coming back? He barely talks to us, and now it's like he's borderline suicidal. Don't tell me you don't think something's wrong, because that—" Sam pointed vaguely toward the dorm rooms. "Is not the Cas we know. It's not even Lucifer."

Dean stared at his beer, the stuff he'd already drank turning rancid in his stomach as voices from long ago echoed in his memory.

_"That was a bonehead move back there. You could have gotten yourself killed. Why didn't you wait for me?"_

_"Well, I didn't get killed. And it worked."_

_"And if it didn't?"_

_"It would have been my problem."_

Dean ran a hand down his face. "This wasn't the first time," he said, voice just above a whisper.

Sam frowned. "What?"

Dean shoved the beer bottle away from him; no amount of liquor was going to make this better, or easy.

"It's not the first time Cas has been suicidal."

Sam leaned back in his chair and gaped at him. "What are you talking about?"

Dean just shook his head, not really knowing where to start. There'd been several times, actually, but for whatever reason, Dean had brushed them off, hoping they'd just go away.

Yeah, that had worked out so well.

He swallowed around the lump growing in his throat. "Well, there was, uh, when he took your Cage scars."

Sam quirked a confused brow. "He was trying to help."

"Yeah, but he was also punishing himself." And Dean had thought, in those moments when he had piled Sam in the car so they could drive away and leave Cas at the mental hospital…that the angel deserved it. Which was exactly what Cas had thought, too.

_"It's better this way."_

Cas had known what he was doing when he shifted Sam's Cage trauma to himself.

And then there was Purgatory.

Dean reached for the beer bottle again, only to abort the movement. "I, uh, told you Cas fell before he could get through the portal out of Purgatory."

"Yeah…" Sam said warily.

"Turned out I was remembering it wrong. Cas cleared it up for me shortly after he got back." Dean shook his head, throat constricting at the horror of that revelation when Cas had placed two fingers to his forehead and shown him _exactly_ what had happened.

"He stayed on purpose. Said he didn't want to be saved, that he deserved to stay there for the rest of eternity. And he would have if that Naomi bitch hadn't gone in and plucked him out to turn him into her puppet."

Cas probably blamed himself for that, too.

"When we rescued Kevin, Cas pulled the same thing he did today—confronted Crowley when he wasn't at full strength and could have gotten killed. And you know what he said to me when I called him on it?" Dean leaned forward, too riled up to stop now. "That it would have been his problem."

Sam's eyes widened with understanding.

"That doesn't even include the time he admitted, right to my face, that he was afraid he'd kill himself. After how screwed up Heaven got when he went Godstiel on everyone."

Sam's staggered expression, like a kid who'd just been told Santa wasn't real, would have been laughable if not for the gravity of the situation. "Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know, it just…there was always other stuff going on, you know? Fate of the world type of stuff." But it was a lame excuse and Dean knew it. His best friend had been drowning in guilt and self-loathing, and he hadn't tried to throw him a life preserver. In some instances, he'd probably even made things worse.

He dropped his head into his hands. "I screwed up, Sam. I wasn't there for Cas when he needed it."

"Okay," Sam said slowly. "Yeah, that sounds like it was pretty bad. But, Dean, it was a few years ago. Cas obviously got over it, at least for a while."

Dean shook his head. No, no he hadn't. He'd just kept plugging away like the rest of them. And there had been signs, but Dean had just been too preoccupied to see.

"In Rexford, the Rit Zien angel that was targeting people who were depressed—he went after Cas. And after Cas got his grace back, well…" Dean paused and grabbed the beer just to wash down the acrid taste in his mouth. "I have no idea what was going on with him then because I was too absorbed with the Mark. But considering recent events, I doubt he was peachy-keen." Dean snorted, and took another swig. "Then there was the Netflix binge watching, which I think we can look at in a new light."

Sam's mouth was pressed into a tight line. "I didn't think…I had no idea things were that bad." He ran a hand over his hair, and then abruptly straightened. "So, when Cas said yes to Lucifer, it wasn't…he wasn't just trying to help, was he?"

Dean's gut turned to lead. He'd only briefly wondered about Cas's motivations with that one, simply because it hurt too much to consider that his best friend, his _brother_ , would have thrown himself on a grenade like that, not out of a misguided attempt to 'save the world,' but because Cas didn't care if he lived or died afterward.

Dean was actually quite familiar with that reasoning. Which made this whole situation hurt even more.

"Probably not," he muttered. "All the shit he's been through…he's shaken it off too many times, Sam. I don't think it's gonna be so easy this time."

Sam glanced over his shoulder toward the hallway, then turned back to Dean and lowered his voice again. "So what do we do?"

Dean drained the last of his beer. "I don't know. But Cas needs help."

He just didn't think he was qualified enough to give it.

* * *

Castiel paced the length of his small room. It was too confining. The cold, concrete walls were pressing in on him, much like Lucifer had when the archangel had swamped Castiel's grace and pushed it down deep where he'd become nothing more than an ember of a thought. He had been caged inside his own vessel, and though he had control of his limbs again, he did not seem to have control of his body.

His chest physically hurt from the emotions welling up inside him, churning and pulsing with fiery vengeance. The echo of Sam's accusations and Dean's verbal barbs cracked against him like a whip. Would they ask him to leave, knowing how much of a liability he was now? They hadn't, when he was under Rowena's curse; they'd let him stay then. But that was when the Darkness was still a mystery and they needed Castiel's help.

He pivoted sharply, reaching his hands up to clutch at his hair. He still remembered Dean saying he couldn't stay in the bunker, when he was human and the angels were hunting him. Yes, that had been Gadreel's doing, and Castiel understood, Dean needed to protect Sam. He _understood_. So why did it still hurt? Especially now, nearly two years later? Why did the thought of Dean walking through that door and telling Castiel to leave send his heart rate into overdrive and agony stabbing through his stomach? It'd probably be for the best, for them. The Winchesters meant everything to Castiel, but he couldn't keep doing this, couldn't keep putting them through the aggravation of his mistakes. Especially when he couldn't offer anything to make up for it.

Castiel spun around and dropped onto the foot of the bed, squeezing his eyes shut as his throat started to close. It was too much, always too much. He didn't want to feel these overwhelming sensations—the fear and helplessness…the loathing and _shame_. They felt like tangible forces building inside him, trying to burst outward and explode him into a million pieces. He just wanted it to _stop_.

He slipped his angel blade out. The celestial alloy was cold and heavy in his hand, and Castiel shakily raised it. Angel blades could cut through the matter of anything, could even cut out an angel's grace. Maybe it could carve out some of these feelings before they destroyed him.

His hand trembled as he held the blade over his chest, and he reached his other hand up to brace it, hating how weak he had become. He'd faced battles and wounds before, had willingly bled for what he believed in… Castiel dragged the tip of the blade down his chest, gritting his teeth against the searing pain as blood and grace welled up to spill over. He waited for the suffocating emotions to bleed out with them, but it wasn't happening.

Adjusting his grip, he pushed the blade in deeper, letting out an agonized groan as he sliced down sharply with a warrior's efficiency. The flare of physical pain briefly doused the internal turmoil, but didn't quench it. The emotions were still there, roiling and festering under his skin as the Leviathan had all those years ago.

Castiel lowered the blade to his lap and stared at the streaming blood and glowing cuts. It wasn't enough. Nothing would be enough.

Metatron's voice filled his head. _"You are scarred…deep, paralyzed by trauma, by fear."_

He was scarred. Too deep to get to, to release, or to fix.

Some of Castiel's energy drained out of him instantly, replacing some of the mental torment with a numbing sense of despair.

And as some levelheadedness returned to him, Castiel looked at what he had done and felt a whole new wave of disgust for himself. He wasn't an angel. He wasn't human. This wretched, pathetic existence wasn't even worth taking up oxygen…

* * *

Sam made his way down the hall, still reeling from everything Dean had told him. He'd thought for sure Amara had brought Cas back wrong, how that could be the only possible explanation for the angel's bizarre behavior. But to find out that Cas was legitimately depressed—had been for _years_ —to the point he'd throw himself at danger without any regard for his life…Sam didn't know what to do with that. It just didn't fit with his image of Cas, the angel who was always there for them, the angel who had died, been cut off from Heaven, lost his grace and become human…and okay, given everything, Cas was definitely entitled to have some form of post-traumatic-stress. That would explain the Netflix bingeing after Rowena's spell. Sam had just always figured…Cas was an angel. He was tough, impervious, even, to the things that could break most humans.

But apparently Sam was wrong.

And they needed to do something. Which Dean knew, but obviously wasn't ready to face, since he'd popped open a third liquor bottle before Sam left the kitchen. And yeah, Sam didn't know exactly how to deal with this situation either, but he wanted to talk to Cas, maybe get the truth for himself.

So he went to the angel's closed door and knocked. Cas didn't respond, which wasn't that surprising. But Sam wasn't giving up, not on something this important.

He knocked again to signal he was coming in as he turned the knob and opened the door.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. Cas was sitting on the foot of the bed, bloody slashes scored across his chest. For a split second, Sam thought the werewolf injuries had suddenly come back.

And then he spotted the angel blade in Cas's lap, tip glistening red.

"Oh my god." Sam took a half-step forward, and then hesitated, throwing a frantic look over his shoulder. _Shit, shit, shit_. "Cas…"

Cas blinked up at him dazedly. "Sam." His voice was hollow, eyes somewhat glazed.

"Cas, give me the angel blade," Sam tried to say calmly yet forcefully, all the while his heart was rampaging behind his rib cage. He moved another step forward and held his hand out.

Cas stared at him, then slowly followed Sam's gaze to the angel blade, looking as though he didn't realize it was there. Sam inched closer, poised to leap if Cas made a move…though the angel's grip on the hilt was lax.

Gritting his teeth, Sam lunged in and snatched the weapon away. "Dean! Dean, get in here!" He tossed the angel blade out into the hall and whirled back to Cas, who was still just sitting there, gaze now lucid and expression crumpled in devastation.

Dean came barreling in a moment later, eyes already wide and alert, but they rounded further when he saw Cas. "What happened?" he demanded.

Sam spread his arms, completely nonplussed and not knowing what to do. "I don't…I found him…" He jerked his chin toward the angel blade lying on the floor in the hall, and Dean's face blanched in horror.

"What the hell, Cas!" Dean pushed his way into the angel's personal space and started ripping open the dress shirt, heedless of the buttons and exposing fissured flesh still seeping blood. "Werewolves didn't do enough, you thought you'd finish the job?" he snarled.

Cas winced when Dean tried to yank the trench coat off. "They're not deep," he said softly.

"So that makes it okay?" Dean snapped.

Sam could see Cas starting to fold in on himself, and as horrific as this whole scene was, Cas shutting down wasn't going to help them here.

"Cas, you understand why we're upset, right?" he asked, maintaining a calmer cadence than Dean.

"I let you down again."

"What? Cas, we're concerned about you hurting yourself!"

"I'm sorry," Cas muttered, staring at the floor.

Dean's hand clenched in the coverlet, his shoulders visibly shaking as he fought to keep his temper under control. Sam wasn't having much of an easier time keeping himself in check, either. He took in the blood, Cas's slack, defeated posture, and realized things were very, _very_ bad.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Dean went to get the first aid kit, using it as an excuse to get himself under control before he lost his cool and literally throttled Cas. That wouldn't help matters. Not that Dean knew what _would_. Shit, this was…he didn't have words to describe what the hell this was. Cas taking an angel blade to himself? Dean knew the angel was reckless to the point of self-destruction, but this was a whole new level Dean wasn't prepared for.

He came back into the room with the first aid stuff. Cas hadn't moved from his spot at the end of the bed, and Sam had pulled up a chair to sit next to him, watching with worried eyes.

"Take your shirt off," Dean instructed gruffly.

"It's fine, Dean," Cas replied softly. "I'm not going to die from these."

"I don't care." He dropped the medical supplies on the dresser and left to grab another chair from the room across the hall. Maybe Cas's healing would take care of the cuts in a few hours, but Dean was gonna need something routine to focus on and keep him levelheaded through the next thirty minutes or whatever while they tried to hash this out.

When he dragged the chair back in, Sam was just finishing helping Cas shrug off his t-shirt. The angel looked a lot smaller without all the layers, kinda like he had when he'd been human dressed in that Gas-N-Sip vest.

Dean gritted his teeth at the lacerations. He'd seen plenty of injuries before, but this…this made him sick to his stomach. He grabbed the antiseptic and took a seat to start cleaning the wounds. Cas sat through it stoically, jaw clenched and staring at the wall.

"Cas," Sam said gently, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "Why would you do this?"

Cas glanced at Sam, and his expression crumpled. "I…don't know."

Dean snorted. "That's not good enough."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to be straight with me!" Dean mentally chastised himself for raising his voice. He was angry, sure, but more than that he was freaking terrified. Something was threatening his best friend, and all Dean wanted to do was kill it. But what did one do when the monster they were facing wasn't a demon, or some entity outside themselves? It was something more sinister than that.

"This isn't exactly new, Cas," he tried again. "What happened with the werewolves… You told me once you were afraid you might kill yourself."

"That's not what I was doing." Cas squinted and then ducked his gaze to his torn chest. "I…I was in pain."

Dean threaded the needle. "So you thought you'd cause _more_?"

" _No_. I thought…" Cas shook his head. "I thought I could cut it out. Like when Metatron cut out my grace. I just…wanted the pain to stop." His voice cracked at the end, and Dean's heart twisted at the confession. Shit, how could he have let things get this bad?

He exchanged a concerned look with Sam, and managed to soften his tone when he responded. "Okay, well, this is not a healthy way to deal with that."

"Would you rather I drink a liquor store?"

Dean huffed. "Do you think it would help?"

" _Dean_." Sam shot him a bitch-face before quickly switching back to sympathetic. "Cas, you're hurting, we get it. Just, tell us what's going on so we can help."

Cas stared at Dean's hands as they nipped and tucked at his flesh. "You can't help," he murmured.

"Not if you don't talk to us," Dean half-growled.

"I'm sure there are more important things…"

"Not more important than family."

Cas turned his head away, and Dean felt like a rock just plummeted through his gut. Right, when had Dean ever given Cas the indication that he could come to them for help like this? The one time Cas had actually opened up about being depressed and potentially suicidal, they'd been interrupted. Cas had jumped at the distraction, and Dean…well, he'd let it slide. Like he always did.

He focused on finishing the last few stitches as gently as he could. "You know…sometimes me and Sam got so much going on that we forget about everyone else." He snipped the thread and set the needle aside. "But you are family, Cas. You've always been there. You're the best friend we've ever had. Hell, you're our _brother_. And right now there is nothing more important than helping you get through this."

Cas continued to keep his gaze fixed on the wall, brow pinched as though in pain. Dean wordlessly handed Sam some of the gauze so they could wrap Cas's chest. Once that was done, they both sat back and waited.

Finally, Cas's shoulders slumped and he dropped his gaze to the floor, still not looking at them. "I thought it was finally over," he said in abject defeat. "My penance was complete, and God wouldn't bring me back for further punishment."

Punishment? … _"I see now. It's a punishment resurrection."_

Dean sagged at the echoed words from so long ago. Shit.

Cas shook his head, oblivious as he continued. "But then Amara had to go and do it herself. I…I don't understand why…"

Dean's throat was growing tight. "Because she knew we needed you."

Cas let out a derisive snort. "I have nothing left to give you. My grace is ruined. Giving you Lucifer was my last act of usefulness."

"You expected to die," Dean filled in the blank, feeling hollow.

Cas shrugged, and Dean leaned forward to grip his forearm, hard enough to make the angel wince.

"Did you even think about what that would do to me and Sam? To lose you like that? To lose you at all?"

Cas lifted sad eyes to his. "I assumed you'd get over it like you've always done."

Dean dug his fingers into Cas's arm. "I would not have 'gotten over it.' I was devastated, Cas. Do you understand that? When Amara killed you with Lucifer…" His breathing hitched. "A part of me died too, just as if Sam had died."

Cas looked doubtful, and Dean glanced at his brother, having no idea how to get through to their friend. Sam just gazed back at him helplessly.

Dean took a centering breath, and decided to try a new track. "You said yes to Lucifer to punish yourself."

Cas opened his mouth as though to argue, but Dean cut him off.

"Yeah, yeah, to save the world too. That was just a bonus, wasn't it? Or maybe it was the other way around. I get it, Cas, I really do. More than you know. All the shit I've seen? The things I've done? I've crossed the line, more times than I can count. And so when it comes time to fix things, and there's a way that means I have to sacrifice myself…yeah, I'll do it. Because I think I deserve it."

He pointedly didn't glance at Sam during that confession. This wasn't about Dean, anyway; it was about Cas. And when Sam cleared his throat, Dean was ready to snap at him to keep quiet, but then his little brother blew him away.

"I've been there too, Cas." Sam shifted in his seat. "I may have put the whole demon blood addiction and letting Lucifer out the first time behind me, but when I was doing the Trials to close the gates of Hell…yeah, it was for a good cause. But on some level, it was also penance."

Dean's chest tightened, and he had to draw in a long breath. Shit, all three of them had issues.

He loosened his grip on Cas's arm. "Look, Cas, we've all made mistakes. And we've all tried to make up for them. We do the best we can and hope it's enough. And I spent a bit of time with God recently." Dean paused, and took Cas's face in his hands in order to force the angel to look him in the eye. "And I can tell you he never brought you back as punishment."

Cas's eyes wavered with such immense pain that it made Dean's stomach clench. And then the angel crumpled forward against him. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas, not caring about his personal space or damn chick-flick moments. Cas didn't cry or make a sound, he just slumped wearily in Dean's arms as though he didn't have the strength to hold himself up anymore.

So Dean would do it for him. He lifted his gaze to meet Sam's, both of them sharing that silent promise.

* * *

Sam's jaw cracked with a yawn, and he gave himself a sharp shake. Watching Netflix was threatening to put him to sleep. Granted, he'd hardly gotten any shut-eye last night. After that heart-wrenching conversation with Cas, the angel had eventually succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep. Sam and Dean had tucked him into bed, and then Dean had stayed with him through the night. They'd come to the agreement that Cas shouldn't be left alone for a single minute, and Dean had insisted on taking the first shift.

But Sam's mind had still been reeling too much for him to even think of getting some rest himself. He took Cas's angel blade and stowed it in his own room, then went through the bunker looking for other weaponry just lying around that could potentially harm an angel. Which, given Cas's weakened grace, meant just about anything.

Now it was the next day, and Sam was sitting with Cas while Dean had gone out on a supply run. They needed more food, and if Cas was sleeping, he might need to start eating, too.

Cas picked up the remote lying on the bed at his side, and muted the television before turning to Sam. "Am I on a suicide watch?" he asked with a trace of bitterness. He was wearing one of Dean's old, gray t-shirts, which concealed the bandages underneath, but Sam could still see the bloody cuts as clear as day in his mind's eye.

He straightened in his chair, popping a few vertebrae as he did. Thing was not comfortable to spend hours in. "Do you think you need to be?"

Cas let out a huff. "I'm not going to kill myself. I already told you the incident with the angel blade was a mistake. I hadn't been thinking clearly, and it won't happen again."

Sam nodded slowly. "Good. Glad to hear it. But…you're still not okay."

Shaking his head in clear frustration, Cas un-muted the TV and went back to watching whatever show he'd queued up on Netflix, some cop drama. Sam leaned back in his chair, shifting in an effort to get comfortable, and watched the LAPD detectives investigate a homicide.

In truth, Sam didn't think distracting Cas with Netflix was the best strategy, but at the moment, he and Dean didn't exactly know what else to come up with. They needed to think of a game plan, though, that was for sure.

"Being needed," one of the characters was saying. "That's the next best thing to being wanted."

Cas suddenly shut the TV off, which only transferred the show back to the laptop it was connected to. Sam frowned as Cas swung his legs off the bed and marched toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob.

"I'm going to sit in the library. Is that alright?"

Sam gave the angel an exasperated look, and tried not to let Cas's pissy attitude get to him. "You're not a prisoner, Cas."

Cas didn't respond, just opened the door and left.

Sam pushed himself out of the chair and went to the laptop. Hesitating, he dragged the video counter back a bit and replayed the last few seconds.

"Being needed. That's the next best thing to being wanted."

Sam furrowed his brow, and played it again. Why would that set Cas off?

_"We need you."_

Oh. Sam ran a hand through his hair. He thought maybe he was starting to get some of the things going on with Cas. That didn't necessarily make it any easier to fix, but at least it gave him a place to start.

He closed the laptop and headed toward the library. Cas looked up from a chair when he entered and then quickly looked away, his muscles obviously coiled tight.

"Cas, how about going for a walk?"

There was a beat of silence before he responded. "No, thank you."

"Come on, you could use some fresh air." Sam moved closer, drawing his attention up again. "Besides, it'd be nice to have company."

Cas frowned at him as though suspecting some kind of trap, and then his gaze flicked warily toward the staircase. "I…"

He sounded so unsure, a far cry from the slight hostility a moment before, so Sam took hold of his elbow and nudged him to his feet.

"I want your company, Cas."

Cas looked torn as they headed toward the door, but Sam figured it'd be good for him to get out, get some sun. The bunker was great, but it could be like a dungeon sometimes.

The moment Cas reached the bottom of the staircase, however, he jerked back, chest suddenly heaving. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Sam, I can't…"

"What?" Sam blinked at him dubiously, and shot a hand out to brace him as Cas swayed. "What's wrong?"

Cas shook his head, eyes still closed tightly. "I'm sorry."

Wait, this had happened before…

Cas sucked in a sharp breath, but it only seemed to aggravate the situation, and soon he was panting as though about to hyperventilate.

"Shit, Cas, are you having a panic attack?"

Cas managed to open his eyes to slits and glare at him. "I'm not…I don't." He bent double, and Sam surged forward to catch him. He could feel the tremors running through Cas's muscles as he helped the angel sink to the floor.

"Just breathe, man, okay? Deep breaths."

Cas either wasn't hearing him or was unable to obey.

"Okay." Sam shifted, placing one hand in the center of Cas's back, the other on his chest. Cas grimaced, probably from the cuts, and Sam wanted to apologize, but this was taking precedence. "Breathe with me," he commanded, pressing his own chest against Cas's shoulder. "Like this: in…and out."

Cas shuddered as he tried to follow, and Sam's heart clenched at the look of anguish and terror on his friend's face. But he kept himself composed. Cas needed him to be steady right now.

"That's it," Sam coaxed. "Breathe in…and out."

Cas's chest slowly settled into a rhythm that matched Sam's, and after a few more moments of concentrated breathing, he slumped against the steps.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Sam's brows shot upward. "What? You have nothing to be sorry for, Cas."

He shook his head. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. "It's called PTSD. It can cause panic attacks." Why hadn't he seen it sooner?

Cas let out a brittle laugh. "I'm broken in so many ways…I bet God wouldn't even be able to put me back together."

Sam frowned. "That's not true. You're…hurt, yes. But you can heal from this."

Cas tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. "I doubt that's true this time, Sam. But thank you, for…" He trailed off, ducking his gaze.

"Hey, this is nothing to be ashamed of. You've been through hell, Cas. Not just Lucifer possessing you these past several months, but even before that." Sighing, Sam shifted position again, stretching his legs out so he could lean back, shoulder to shoulder with Cas. "You know it's not just you, right? Dean and I have had some form of post-traumatic stress before. Probably still do."

"Neither of you have ever let it cripple you," Cas said dejectedly. "I can barely leave the bunker without seeing…"

Sam forced himself not to stiffen. "Seeing what?"

"Things…that have happened. You would call them flashbacks."

Sam's heart sank. So Cas was having those, too. He should've figured.

"I've had those. A lot when I was hallucinating Lucifer." Not to mention the visions he'd thought were from God. Jeez, they could just reclassify the bunker as a mental hospital.

Cas pressed a palm to his eyes. "I did that to you."

Sam sighed. "I don't blame you for that anymore. You saved me, in the end." And according to Dean, Cas knew it would break him then, too. "And who's to say the wall would've held forever anyway? Those were my memories, Cas, because I chose to jump into the Pit with Lucifer. Heck, I wasn't even supposed to have gotten _out_. You did that." Sam turned to face him, ignoring the concrete step digging into his side. "And I never thanked you."

Cas blinked up at him.

Sam reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you for raising me from Hell. And now I'm gonna do everything I can to help raise you from yours."

Cas gazed back at him, eyes full of so much pain and weariness, and yet a little bit of desperate hope, as though he wanted so badly to cling to Sam's promise. Sam pulled him into a hug, because shit, Cas looked like he needed it. And instead of being stiff like before, Cas sagged into the embrace.

Sam wanted to say he was sorry for all the times he'd been blind to Cas's struggles, for practically writing the angel off when Lucifer was riding shotgun. But belated apologies and trite concessions weren't gonna convince Cas that he deserved to live, that the Winchesters cared about him and wanted him here. No, what they did from this point forward would do that. And Sam sure as hell wasn't gonna screw it up.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel sat at the kitchen table, watching Dean stir egg yolks and bacon as they sizzled in the pan. He kept waiting for, what was the human colloquialism—the other shoe to drop. For the Winchesters to realize this crusade they'd undertaken was too much, that Castiel wasn't worth it.

"How long are you going to keep this up?" he asked.

Dean quirked a confused brow over his shoulder. "Breakfast will be done in ten minutes, jeez."

Castiel huffed out an exasperated breath. "No, I meant this…me…" He cut himself off, not even knowing how to put into words what his situation was at the moment. He knew he wasn't _well_ , though he'd be hard-pressed to say when was the last time he'd truly been 'fine'. He'd just always been able to function before. And he could see how worried Sam and Dean were, evidenced by them refusing to leave him to his own devices, not even to watch Netflix by himself. But it was becoming quite the chore for them, and an inconvenience. They'd have to become fed up soon.

Dean put the spatula down and turned to face him, leaning back against the counter with arms crossed. "As long as it takes."

Castiel sighed. "That's noble, Dean, but not practical. There are still cases you and Sam could be looking into—"

"There are other hunters." Dean turned back to the stove.

"None as good as you and Sam," he countered. "You two should be out there."

"What, are you sick of my company already?" Dean joked.

"I'm waiting for you to tire of mine," he muttered without thinking.

Dean's hand stirring the eggs stilled, though he didn't turn around. "That's not gonna happen," he spoke levelly.

Castiel wished that were true, but past experience told him otherwise. "Dean…I can't…I can't be what you need. Not like this."

Dean's shoulders sagged with a heavy breath, and he rubbed the back of his neck before turning around again. "The only thing I need from you, Cas, is for you to be alright. And to be here."

Castiel dropped his gaze to the floor. It was a nice sentiment, one he'd always secretly hoped for from the Winchester brothers. But it had never really been true, not in the moments where it mattered, where Castiel was battered and hurting and alone. He barely remembered his time at the mental hospital, which was probably for the best. But there was after the angels fell and he was human, when his stolen grace was burning him out, and then after Rowena's spell had left him little more than fractured glass waiting for a single nudge to shatter him completely. Granted, Sam and Dean hadn't _abandoned_ him after that last one; the three of them had just gotten so used to their practiced roles that Castiel had hidden that anything was wrong.

"I still don't think I can give you the first part," he said quietly.

Dean didn't respond, and Castiel hoped perhaps the Winchester hadn't heard him, but when he chanced a look up, he found Dean's stricken expression gazing back at him. He didn't want to cause Dean pain, but he always managed to anyway. Why couldn't they see that?

An image of Castiel's fist driving down and splitting Dean's cheek flashed through his mind, and he almost choked at the raw intensity behind it. But then Dean moved forward and crouched in front of him, putting them eye to eye, and Castiel found he could focus on that.

"Do you remember what you said to me after Purgatory?" Dean asked. "That nothing I could do would save you because you didn't want to be saved? Well, you were right. I can't save you if you don't want it. So I'm begging you here, Cas, _want_ it. Let me help you."

Castiel bit at his bottom lip. "I…I want to _want_ it, Dean. I'm just…I don't know how anymore."

Dean nodded sadly. "I get that, I do. You don't see a light at the end of this shitty tunnel. I've been there." He stood up again. "But I need you to hear me on this: I ain't leaving you. No matter how long it takes, I am standing by you this time, Cas. And I'm gonna keep saying it till you believe me."

Castiel wanted to believe, he did. There were just too many past disappointments niggling at the back of his mind, whispering to be on guard for when everything inevitably fell apart.

Yet, for each agonizingly long day that passed where Sam and Dean didn't tell him to leave, didn't get angry that he wasn't healing faster, Castiel thought maybe, just maybe, he could trust it.

* * *

Sam let the crisp morning air fill his lungs as he jogged down the trail, hoping it would revitalize him. It'd been an exhausting week that had left him wrecked more than once. He knew Cas was feeling it even worse, and Sam just wished there was something he and Dean could do to make things better. Sam had even been burning the midnight oil researching everything he could on post-traumatic stress disorder, panic attacks, and depression. But there was no easy fix here. It'd taken Cas a long time to fall to this point, and it'd take him a long time to come back from it.

But he could, and _would_. Sam had to keep believing that, even when Cas didn't.

A branch snapped to his left, and Sam pulled up short, eyes peeled across the foliage for danger. Hyper-vigilance. He'd read it was a symptom of PTSD, though Sam thought of it more as a natural byproduct of their lives. How many enemies had they made over the years that might try to track them down at the bunker?

But nothing jumped out at him, and the crinkle of leaves turned into a faint whimper. Sam edged toward a clump of bushes, one hand poised to grab the gun in his waistband. He pushed some branches aside, and let out a chagrined huff when he saw it was just a dog. A rather filthy one, at that, curled up in a mesh of mulch and what looked like a ratty piece of clothing.

The golden labrador lifted its head and blinked at Sam, honey eyes open without a glimmer of hostility. Sam slowly crouched down.

"Hey, buddy. What are you doing all the way out here?" He held a hand out to let the dog sniff him.

The labrador stretched his neck out, nostrils chuffing along Sam's fingers. Then it nudged its wet nose into his palm and rose on slightly shaky legs, pushing forward for more attention. Sam scratched behind one ear and worked his way down the dog's scruff. No collar. He should probably take the dog into town, get it to an animal shelter. Or maybe there was some identification in the coat it was using as a blanky.

Sam scrunched his nose up as he lifted the dirty article. It was actually a trench coat…a tan trench coat. Sam frowned, a strange feeling prickling at the back of his mind. It wasn't _Cas's_ ; that'd be silly. But…it kinda looked like the coat the angel used to wear, way back when…

Sam glanced at the dog warily. It just stood there, watching him. Then it tilted its head to the side and whined pitifully, tail twitching as though restraining against a full on, hopeful wag. Sam stared back at it.

…Surely he was reading too much into this. Except, one of the things he'd come across in his research was the use of service dogs to treat panic attacks. Not that _this_ animal was trained or anything, but out here in the middle of nowhere, with a coat this similar…what were the odds?

_"Uh, God? Er, Chuck. Did you…?"_ Sam trailed off, glancing around the still and tranquil woods. Supposedly Chuck and Amara had gone far away, but did that mean he couldn't hear prayers anymore? Not that Chuck had ever been direct when answering them.

The labrador gazed at Sam patiently.

Well, it couldn't _hurt_ to take the dog back to the bunker and see what happened…

Sam stood up and clucked his tongue. "Come on, boy."

The labrador's tail instantly started wagging as he hopped out of the mulch and onto the trail. Sam frowned at the way it held its front right paw up when standing. Crap, he couldn't make the dog limp all the way back to the bunker.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Sam bent down and scooped his arms under the dog's belly, hoping the animal remained friendly when being manhandled. But the labrador didn't make a sound as Sam hefted him up. He wasn't all that heavy, probably due to malnutrition. But boy did he stink.

"Dean is not gonna like this," Sam muttered as he started back toward the bunker. And saying he thought the animal might be a sign from God probably wouldn't go over well, either. Besides, Sam could be wrong…he just kinda hoped he wasn't.

_"I hope you know what you're doing,"_ he added. Just in case.

* * *

"Breakfast wasn't so bad, was it?" Dean asked as he and Cas made their way from the kitchen out to the library.

"You're going to clog your arteries."

Dean rolled his eyes. Getting Cas to eat was like getting a two-year-old to finish his green vegetables. Dean didn't even know if Cas _needed_ to eat. He had yet to ask about the condition of the angel's grace. Cas was still too on edge, taking the mildest of comments as personal accusations or confirmation of his faults. It made trying to carry on a conversation with him frustrating and exhausting, and Dean thought all the saints should be proud of how he'd managed to keep his patience thus far.

In the meantime, he was gonna err on the side of caution and prompt Cas into eating. Besides, there was a reason it was called 'comfort food.' He just had to find something Cas liked, and hoped it wouldn't end up being that health food crap Sam toted.

"What did you like to eat when you were human? I can make it." Dean slowed as they passed the study tables, a vague memory stirring. "Hey, what about burritos?"

Cas shrugged one shoulder noncommittally.

Dean sat on the edge of one table and crossed his arms. "Seriously, dude, you gotta give me something to work with."

Cas pursed his mouth. "I…was fond of peanut butter and jelly. Grape, but not jam." He looked away.

Dean tried to keep his face schooled. PB&J wasn't exactly five-star dining, but hey, it wasn't rabbit food, either.

"Good choice," he said.

The creak of the bunker door opening interrupted them, and Dean glanced over his shoulder to shout out a greeting to Sam. He frowned when he heard his brother grunting with exertion, and pushed off the table to head into the war room. Dean pulled up short at the sight of his brother lumbering down the stairs with a large mutt in his arms.

"What the… Sam, did you hit another dog?"

Sam shot him a bitch-face. " _No_. I found him in the woods on my run. And he's hurt."

Sam reached the bottom of the stairs and gently set the dog down. He stayed crouched next to it, stroking fingers through mud-matted fur.

A rancid odor started tickling Dean's nose. "Aw, come on, man, he reeks! Why didn't you leave him outside?"

"To die from exposure?"

"It's barely in the 40s at night," he retorted.

Sam shook his head, obviously vexed, though Dean didn't get why. They knew better than to bring home pets.

Cas stepped forward, approaching Sam and the dog slowly. The golden lab turned its head up to look at him, and for a moment the two held a staring contest that rivaled how Cas used to stare at Dean. Or through him. Neither angel nor dog looked away. In fact, it was starting to get kinda weird…

Cas reached a hand out and rested it on top of the dog's head. In the next instant, the mud and grime was gone, replaced with a shiny golden coat and bright eyes. The dog pranced in place and let out a bark.

Dean grimaced. "Okay, good, now it can be on its way."

"Her name is Lina," Cas said.

Dean inwardly groaned. No, naming was the beginning of the end.

"How do you know that?" Sam asked, standing up.

Cas did that bird-like head tilt, and damn, that was good to see again. "She told me."

Dean's brows rose. "She told you…"

"Huh," Sam said, crossing his arms with a thoughtful mien. "Well, makes sense." He looked at Dean. "Remember that spell that let you talk to dogs? I mean, we know they're smart, and if anyone could talk to them naturally, why not angels?"

Oh yeah, Dean had almost forgotten about that incident. "Okay, sure. Cas, does Lina have a home we can return her to?"

The dog whined and shook out her fur.

Cas's forehead creased. "No."

Sam instantly brightened, which immediately put Dean on the defensive.

"No, no, Sammy. I can see what you're thinking, and the answer is no."

If he expected another bitch-face or whiny argument, he was surprised when Sam grabbed his arm instead and started dragging him back toward the library.

"Keep Lina company for a sec, okay, Cas?" Sam called over his shoulder.

Dean wrenched out of his brother's grip the moment they were in the other room. "Don't even start, Sam. You know we can't keep a pet around here."

"Why not?"

"Uh, because we can't!"

Sam folded his arms across his chest. "Maybe not in the past, but right now the world isn't ending and we actually have time to devote to other things."

"Yeah, like _Cas_ ," Dean hissed.

Sam glowered at him, lowering his voice to just above a whisper too. "I think this would be good for Cas."

Dean scoffed. "Oh really?" He glanced back out into the war room where Cas and Lina were just staring at each other again, both with their heads slightly canted. It would have been adorable if Dean wasn't riled up.

Sam studied them for a moment too, jaw working before he turned back to Dean. "I've been doing a lot of reading on how to help people dealing with what Cas is going through. Service dogs are a significant aid."

"That mutt isn't a service dog," Dean countered.

"No, but that doesn't mean she can't still help."

"By doing what exactly?"

Sam threw his arms out helplessly. "I don't know, Dean. Provide a calming influence? Or maybe just give Cas something else to focus on outside himself, something to take care of." He flicked a quick glance at the angel, as though to make sure Cas couldn't hear them. Sam lowered his voice again anyway. "I think one of the reasons this didn't come to a head sooner was because there was always some big catastrophe Cas could throw himself at. I mean, it's what we always do."

Dean shifted his weight; he couldn't argue with that.

"And now that there's no war to fight, Cas is drowning. I don't know about you, but I want to throw him every life preserver I can find."

Dean shot his brother an indignant look for implying he didn't feel the same, one hundred percent. He ran a hand down his face, and looked back at the angel and dog. The lab had moved closer to Cas, sitting right next to him and practically leaning against his leg. Cas kept gazing down at the animal as though completely baffled, but then, ever so slowly, he lifted a hand and started stroking the dog's head. And damn if some of the tension didn't seem to loosen from Cas's shoulders.

Sam snorted. "You know you liked that German Shepherd, the Colonel."

Dean let out a heavy sigh. Yeah, that dog hadn't been so bad. He'd actually been more talkative and boisterous than this dog was behaving now. Maybe it wouldn't be too annoying to let it stay. Especially if it would in fact help Cas.

He shook his head. "Guess I'd better make a run for dog supplies."


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel sat on the couch in the den adjacent to the library, Lina curled up next to him with her head resting on his thigh. She was currently sleeping, soft snores snuffling from her nose. Castiel knew Dean didn't like her on the furniture, but he couldn't bring himself to make her move. Her companionship was oddly comforting, a silent, steady rock in the maelstrom of his tumultuous thoughts and feelings.

Castiel knew Sam and Dean were trying their best, but this entire thing was difficult for them, wearing on their nerves on occasion. Lina, on the other hand, never judged or became irritated with him when his emotions grew so strong he had to distance himself from everyone, physically and mentally. No, the golden lab would either plop down a couple of feet away from him, or pace a circle around Castiel, as though creating a protective barrier. It was silly, and yet it almost seemed to help and he was able to regain control of himself more quickly.

At Sam's request, Castiel had been helping with seeing to Lina's basic needs. Dean may have agreed to let the dog stay in the bunker, but he'd said upfront that she was to be Sam's and Castiel's responsibility. It made sense for Castiel to help, since Lina could easily tell him when she was hungry, or needed to be let outside. Other than that, though, she didn't talk much. Which was fine by Castiel, as he wasn't feeling very conversational, either.

Also, with Lina around the Winchesters were finally giving Castiel a little more space. They still never left him completely alone; one of them was always in the same room or within shouting distance, but at least they weren't hovering right next to him. Castiel would have found the reversal of personal space invasion ironic if he hadn't been overwhelmed with everything else at the time.

Sam came into the room, a book in hand. "I found the next one in the series…" He trailed off as he took in the open paperback in Castiel's lap.

Castiel had barely gotten a third of the way through it, despite having started two days ago, and not because it wasn't interesting. It was actually quite a different experience to read a story for himself, rather than just relying on the information Metatron had downloaded into his brain to fill in the blanks. But it was just so hard to concentrate sometimes, and the magnitude of the character's plight rang a little too close to home—the anguish and hopelessness that anything could ever be okay again. Knowing the ending of the story didn't help, because the resolution only covered the triumph over evil, not what came after for the war-torn heroes. And, as Castiel knew, it wasn't all 'rainbows and butterflies' like books always made it out to be.

Sam set the paperback on the end table, giving him a small smile. "We should take Lina for a walk."

The dog perked up at that, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn.

Castiel frowned. "She doesn't need to urinate right now."

Sam shook his head in what seemed like fond exasperation. "No, I mean a walk. I think dogs are supposed to get thirty minutes a day or something."

Castiel hesitated. He hadn't thought about that, but it made sense. Part of a healthy lifestyle included exercise, even for a dog. Castiel didn't necessarily want to be the one to take her; Sam could handle that part. But Lina was now looking at him expectantly, and he didn't want to disappoint her after she'd been so kind keeping him company. Sam was also casting him surreptitiously hopeful glances, and so he relented.

"Alright."

Lina jumped off the couch and started wagging her tail. Castiel rose to his feet slowly. He could do this. He'd left the bunker before, several times. And he would not let himself be defined by his last failed attempt.

Sam led the way to the stairs, shooting concerned looks at Castiel, which only made him bristle. Lina bounded up the steps, and Castiel forced himself to march straight up them without stopping. He pushed the outer door open and plunged into brilliant sunlight.

For a split second, the fresh air was a shock to his system, but then he remembered how to breathe, and with his next inhale came the familiar aromas of wet leaves and pollen. Lina darted to the tree line, nose sailing along the ground and up tree trunks. Sam came to a stop at Castiel's shoulder, a wide smile on his face. It rankled Castiel that something as simple and trite as stepping foot out the door would make Sam so proud. And then of course he chastised himself for feeling resentful at all when the Winchesters had obvious reason to be worried about him.

Castiel cleared his throat. "Which way do you want to go?" he asked, voice slightly gruff.

Sam took the lead, and Castiel reluctantly followed. Lina quickly fell into step with them, sometimes trotting ahead, sometimes stopping to sniff something interesting in the surrounding foliage. Sam didn't try to chat with Castiel, for which he was grateful. He was focusing too much on making sure this little excursion went without incident.

At first, he was wary of Sam watching him too closely, just waiting for something to happen. But Sam seemed to be enjoying the scenery and fresh air himself, chuckling at Lina when she bounded after a squirrel. He shared an amused smile with Castiel. It was…nice. Pleasant.

Until Lina startled a raven, which exploded from a nearby bush and shot right in front of Sam and Castiel to escape. The swish of wings and black feathers dislodged Castiel's frame of mind so violently, he didn't realize what had happened. He only knew that suddenly he was surrounded by angels in a forest at night. They were grabbing his arms and wrenching them behind his back painfully. He knew what came next, and his heart jolted with terror. He expected to feel the cold snap of steel around his wrists…

But the sensation he felt instead was a cold wetness slurping across his hand and between his fingers. The memory tried to maintain a hold on him, tried to drag him into that warehouse where the rattle of chains echoed against cement walls.

The licking increased to the point of obnoxiousness, the slick tongue tickling Castiel's fingers. He jolted out of the flashback and blinked to find himself standing in the woods in daylight. There were no angels, just Lina licking his hand and Sam standing at his shoulder, watching worriedly.

"Cas?" he called. "It's okay, you're safe. You're outside the bunker and nothing else is here but us."

Castiel felt his face flush hotly. Dammit, he'd been trying so hard. He jerked his hand away from Lina's ministrations, and she looked up at him with a small whine.

"I'm sorry," he ground out between forced breaths.

Sam heaved a sigh. "You don't have to apologize for this, Cas. It's not your fault."

"I shouldn't be this weak," he muttered. His pulse was still racing.

"It's _not_ a weakness. Cas, do you have any idea how strong you are for dealing with this?"

Castiel shot him a dubious look.

Sam just shook his head. "I'm serious. Everything you've been through…I know you wanted to give up, maybe still do sometimes. But you're still _here_. And that matters, Cas. That means everything."

Castiel glanced away. Maybe that was true. Sam certainly seemed to believe it was. But Castiel didn't feel strong. He felt lost and adrift, a shadow of who he used to be. He'd once been a warrior, and he didn't know how to find himself again.

Sam glanced down at Lina. "Did that work?" he asked, looking back up at Castiel. "Did Lina snap you out of it? It only looked bad for a short moment, not even a full minute, I don't think."

Castiel blinked, taken aback. He hadn't been in the flashback that long? Perhaps that was correct. He couldn't really remember how long the instant itself was, only the fear and expectation that it would continue.

"I…suppose she did."

Lina nudged his knee with her nose and turned warm, honey-brown eyes up at him. Castiel moved his hand back and patted her head. _Thank you_.

Lina's jaw dropped open to pant, expression imitating a smile. Sam was beaming, too. He clapped Castiel on the shoulder and asked if he wanted to continue the walk.

Castiel hesitated only a fraction of a second, and then nodded. With Sam and Lina…he actually did feel safe.

* * *

Sam was beyond thrilled with the progress Cas was making. It may have felt inconsequential to the angel, but Sam knew how important each tiny step was. Lina had turned out to be a godsend indeed, intuitively knowing what Cas needed, when he needed it. If finding a random stray with that much influence didn't say God was still keeping an eye on them, Sam didn't know what did.

But Lina was only helping with some of the more tangible problems associated with Cas's PTSD. There was still the emotional stuff to work through, and today Sam had decided to tackle part of it by helping Cas personalize his room in the bunker. A task easier said than done.

Sam surveyed the bare walls and minimal furnishings while Cas sat on his bed and watched dubiously, Lina lounging on the floor at his feet. Dean wasn't around; he'd taken off earlier that morning on some unexplained errand, saying he'd be back in a day or so. Sam had asked if he was going on a hunt, but Dean denied it. He told Sam to relax and not have any wild parties while he was gone, which left Sam vexed and a little hurt. They were supposed to be past keeping secrets.

Or maybe Dean just wanted to go out and get some action, but didn't want Cas thinking Dean was trying to escape him. Sam wouldn't begrudge Dean needing a break from…well, all this. It could be draining. But Sam wasn't clocking out yet, not even for a short time.

"If there's anything you want, we can call Dean and tell him to pick it up on his way back," Sam said. He could still put his brother to work.

Cas glanced around the room. "I don't need anything."

Sam pursed his mouth. He could actually relate in this situation. He and Dean had spent so much of their lives on the road that personalizing things just wasn't something they did outside the Impala, and that was Dean's space. Even when they'd moved into the bunker, Dean had settled in— _nested_ —a lot quicker than Sam had.

But even though it had taken time—okay, a couple of years—Sam now thought of the bunker as home, and his room now had an extra mounted shelf for books, along with other knickknacks he'd picked up from the artifacts room or just out on the road. He even had a silly little paperweight in the shape of the 'I-Love-You' sign that Eileen had sent him. The room was no longer his designated place to sleep, but _his_. And he wanted Cas to feel the same way about his space.

"We could find some art to hang," Sam suggested. "Or…uh, other things." He'd been about to mention Dean's armory display on his walls, but still wasn't comfortable with the idea of Cas being surrounded by weapons. "Or maybe a plant. I think there are some that can grow without any sunlight."

"Sam," Cas interrupted. "I appreciate the interest." He actually didn't sound as though that were necessarily true. "But what's the point of doing this?"

"So you can feel at home, like this room is yours and you belong here."

"I'm not sure how art and a houseplant accomplishes that."

"It just…does." Sam shrugged. "Didn't you pick up anything that had sentimental value while you were human? Or since then? You've pretty much been living on earth for a while now."

Cas's expression pinched slightly, and he looked away. Lina lifted her head, craning her neck back to gaze up at him. She nudged his shin with her nose, giving Sam a clue that something was bothering Cas and he was trying to hide it. Sam was immensely thankful for the dog's ability to give them cues on how Cas was really feeling; it helped Sam, at least, keep accountable with actually broaching the subject instead of ignoring it.

Sam pulled the chair out from the writing desk and took a seat. "Cas? What's wrong?"

Cas shook his head, and gave a weak smile. "Nothing's wrong. I'm sorry, Sam, I know this is important to you, but I don't have anything like that. I've never been able to stay in a place long enough to keep anything of value, sentimental or otherwise."

Sam was about to ask him what the heck he meant by that, but then it hit him. Dean kicking human Cas out of the bunker because of Gadreel. Cas had sought shelter with them on a few occasions before, but that time he'd been at his utmost need, and Dean had shown him the door.

That wasn't Sam's fault or doing, but before he could congratulate himself on _his_ sensitivity, he remembered how when Cas's stolen grace had been burning him out, Sam hadn't asked him to stay at the bunker. Sam had been solely focused on finding Dean, and, he was loathe to admit it, he'd viewed Cas as a liability. Sam hadn't wanted to take care of a dying angel when his brother was out there somewhere after having died himself.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. Dammit, just how many times had he and Dean unintentionally reinforced Cas's sense of self-worth and expendability? If he could go back and do things differently…oh, so many things.

But that kind of wishful thinking was a waste of energy. Sam needed to work on fixing things now.

"Well," he said, more subdued. "You'll have plenty of time to accumulate stuff here." He cleared his throat and tried to smile again. "But I still think we should do something to make this place feel more homey. Concrete walls aren't exactly nice to look at all the time."

Cas's mouth pursed in thought. "There are plants that thrive in dark places. The Snake Plant is attractive, and is a useful air purifier. And…"

"And what?" Sam prompted.

"A Peace Lily. I don't know why it's called that, as it doesn't possess any peace creating properties. But its white flowers are beautiful, as are the dark green leaves…" Cas promptly clamped his mouth shut. "It's just a suggestion."

Sam smiled in encouragement. "It's a good one, Cas. I'll look up a local nursery and see if they have those."

"If not…"

"Then I'll keep looking until I find them." He stood up again, excusing himself to get his laptop. They might have to look at some home decorator sites to help Cas come up with more ideas of what he might like in his room.

So it was probably a good thing Dean wasn't around to mock them. Sam pulled out his phone and sent his brother a quick text. _"Everything going okay?"_

He headed back to Cas's room with the computer, and took a seat on the bed to start browsing stores. His phone chimed a minute later. _"Fine. You?"_

Shaking his head at his brother's irritating laconicism, Sam typed out his equally sparse reply. _"We're good."_

_"Good. Make sure Cas eats dinner."_

_"Yes, Mom."_

_"Bitch."_

_"Jerk."_

"Is Dean alright?" Cas spoke up.

Sam held the phone out for Cas to read the messages, and the angel's slightly indignant look made him grin.

"Why wouldn't he tell us where he was going?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know."

Cas's mouth thinned. "You're not worried?"

He took a moment to consider it. "No. Things aren't like they used to be, and there's no reason for Dean to go off and do something stupid." In fact, there was a very good reason _not_ to, sitting right next to him. As for what his brother was actually up to, Sam had no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, what could Dean be doing... Not picking up women, in case you were in doubt. ;)


	8. Chapter 8

 

Dean unhitched the tow bar and the last of the chains from the Impala. That had been his least favorite road trip, ever, having to drive ten miles _under_ the limit and take turns like a ninety-five-year-old grandmother. It'd extended the expected length of his trip by almost half a day. But it should be worth it.

Wiping his hands on his jeans, he headed inside the bunker, and found Sam and Cas in the library, both of their noses stuck in books. The labrador was sprawled on her back on the floor, paws up and snoring loudly. Dean shook his head.

"Hey, I got something to show you."

Sam looked up. "Dude, where have you been?"

"Come on and you'll find out." Dean waved at Cas to get up. Guy was still wearing Dean's gray t-shirt with the dress slacks. They should talk about getting him a new wardrobe. Though, considering how often the angel changed the last getup, Dean was probably better off just resigning himself to never getting that shirt back.

"Move it, kids," he prodded.

Sam rolled his eyes, but nevertheless stood up and started following Dean, Cas right behind them. They left Lina perfectly content in dreamland. Dean led the way back up to the garage, and stepped to the side to sweep his arm out at what he'd brought.

Sam's brows shot upward. "You…bought a junker?"

The old continental sat in the middle of the garage, looking shabby with its faded, oxidized white paint, especially next to the classic cars lined up in the nearby stalls.

"It may look crappy now." Dean shot Sam a pointed look. "But after we fix her up, she'll be good as new."

It'd taken him a while of searching through car websites and salvage yards before he'd found a vehicle close to what Cas had owned before Metatron stole it. Granted, it didn't run, and was falling apart in places, but Dean planned to rebuild her for Cas. Maybe the angel could even work on it with him. Dean had been feeling so helpless with everything, he just wanted something _tangible_ he could do. And maybe it was stupid, but a part of him thought that fixing up this car would somehow be like fixing up his best friend.

Dean cleared his throat. "It's for you, Cas. I know how much you liked your car before—there's a bond between a man and his first set of wheels. And it sucks that Metatron probably pawned it at a chop shop first chance he got." Dean rubbed the back of his neck while Cas continued to stare at the vehicle. "I'm sorry I couldn't find yours, but this one is close. It's a Mark IV, not V." He paused. "Is it okay?"

Cas shifted his weight nervously. "This isn't…isn't so I can eventually leave, is it?"

Dean froze. "What? No! I told you, Cas, this is your home. Always." How many times did he have to say it?

_As many as it takes_ , he berated himself. It wasn't like he hadn't given Cas reason to doubt in the past; Dean couldn't hold it against him.

"I thought it was something we could work on together. I'll teach you."

Cas still looked unsure, and Dean tried not to be disappointed. Even if Cas didn't want to help fix the car up, Dean still would.

"Besides," he continued. "If Lina ever needs to go to the vet, you're driving. Because sweet old girl or not, she ain't hopping in my Baby."

Cas's mouth finally quirked a fraction. "She won't need a vet as long as I have my grace."

Dean shrugged. "Well, then you can take her on a car ride just for fun. Dogs love hanging their heads out the window, trust me."

Cas cocked his head to the side. "I don't understand the allure in that."

Dean grinned. "It's a dog thing."

Sam snorted, but then flashed Dean an approving smile.

"Come give her a closer inspection," Dean said to Cas, moving around the side of the car. "She's a 1975 Lincoln Continental with a 7.5 litre overhead. V 8 cylinder gives this baby 4,000 rpm."

Cas tilted his head. "I don't know what that means."

"That's okay, we'll go over it when we get into rebuilding the engine first. If you want to. And we can paint her a different color, though that'll come way at the end. It'll probably take us several months to get her in tip-top shape," he added, wanting to remind Cas that this wasn't a sign he was gonna be kicked out.

Cas ran his gaze over the car's frame for a long moment in which Dean and Sam exchanged subtly hopeful looks.

"Perhaps," Cas finally spoke up. "The first lesson should be how to recognize whether a car is female or not." He quirked a confused brow at the vehicle. "Because I can't tell."

Dean coughed into his fist to cover a laugh. "That's easy; they're all ladies." He went over and clapped a hand on Cas's shoulder. It was good to see Cas showing interest in something. Things were finally looking up.

* * *

The next several days, Castiel was kept busy helping Dean begin work on the Continental, taking Lina on walks with Sam, and just puttering around the bunker with the Winchesters, sometimes watching movies, sometimes hanging out in the library. Just because there were no great monsters to hunt, didn't mean there wasn't a wealth of knowledge in the Men of Letters archive to catalogue, which Sam enjoyed doing, and Castiel didn't mind helping with. Dean tended to make himself scarce at those times.

Sam went out and got one of each of those plants Castiel had mentioned, and they'd put them in Castiel's room up on the dresser and desk so Lina wouldn't be tempted to eat some of the leaves, as they were toxic to animals. Overall, things were…calm. Castiel settled into a rhythm of 'going through the motions,' and while it wasn't necessarily enthusiasm that got him out of his room during the day, it wasn't a chore to do so.

Sam and Dean stopped monitoring him every minute of the day, as well, which was good, because they needed sleep at night. Castiel's grace wasn't weak enough to require rest every day, only every few nights. Though, the more sleep and nutrition he fed his vessel, the better shape it was in. The self-inflicted wounds had completely healed with no visible signs of scarring. That made the Winchesters feel better, though Castiel felt as though the scars were still there, underneath the surface and carved into his grace. He still didn't know what he was doing, or what he should consider for his future; he was living one day at a time, which was about all he could manage.

But it was working. He felt at home in the bunker, safe…and valued for no other reason than that Sam and Dean cared about him, and wanted him there. Castiel was doing well.

Until after five days of no sleep—he'd been marathoning the show _Elementary_ (because he was captivated by Sherlock's character, not because he was burying himself in distraction)—Castiel finally resigned himself to going to bed, only to find himself in the depths of a horrendous nightmare. Flames surged up around him, licking across his skin and plunging into his body like hooks of lightning. He screamed and tried to wrench away, but the searing fire burrowed deeper, forking through his grace and cracking it into fissures.

_"You said yes, Castiel. You chose this. Now be a good little angel, and… Don't. Interfere."_

Castiel cried out as the power swelled and split. A pressure built in his chest, threatening to explode him into a million shattered shards…

He jolted awake with a harsh gasp. The room was dark and he couldn't see, and there was still a heavy weight on his sternum, pressing him down into the mattress. He almost panicked, until he heard Lina whine and felt a puff of hot breath in his face. She was lying on top of him.

Castiel blinked in disorientation. His breaths were trying to come too quickly, yet Lina's body pushing down against his chest and lungs prevented him from getting to the point where he could hyperventilate. He lay there for several long moments, staring at the ceiling and listening to Lina's whiffled breathing, trying to match her rhythm. He didn't want to go back to sleep after that, knowing the nightmare would likely resume where it had left off. That had happened several times during his time as a human, and Castiel still hated it.

He finally sat up, nudging Lina off of him, and climbed out of bed. He needed to do something that would keep him awake, which meant watching more TV was out, as was working on book translations; his weakened grace left him susceptible to nodding off.

Castiel slipped his shoes on and shuffled out to the garage, Lina's padded footfalls trailing behind. The Continental had been almost stripped to the frame, with engine compartment completely exposed. Dean said they were rebuilding her from the ground up, which Castiel thought sounded oddly parallel to what they were trying to do with him. Could he be fixed as easily as this car? There had been some moments in the past few days where he thought it might be possible, that he could put the past behind him. But then it reared its ugly head in his dreams, proving that the pain was not gone, only buried in his subconscious waiting for a moment of vulnerability to strike again.

He grabbed the locking pliers from the tool cart and lay down on the creeper, shimmying underneath the vehicle's undercarriage. There were some nuts and bolts too stripped to remove with a regular wrench, so Castiel got to work on that, since he didn't know enough to do some of the actual rebuilding of the engine components.

Castiel wrestled the first bolt free, then set to the next one. It was in a tight spot, and there wasn't a lot of clearance space underneath the car. He ended up rapping his knuckles on the cement floor a couple times, which only served to aggravate his already frayed nerves.

Scooting further in, Castiel reached up to get a leveraging grip on a piece of metal frame, only to slice his hand on a jagged piece of metal. He jerked away in surprise and pain, nearly banging his head on the chassis. Castiel quickly rolled out from underneath the car and lifted his hand for inspection. Bright red blood welled up from a large gash that bisected his palm, and it stung like the fire from his dreams.

Castiel stared at it, suddenly frozen in terror. Dean and Sam were going to be upset when they saw this. What if they thought he'd done it on purpose? They'd be so disappointed…would decide they could no longer trust him, maybe even finally deem him a lost cause, all their effort wasted.

Castiel felt his breaths coming quicker, his chest hitching as his vision filled with nothing but red. And then he was back in that place when he'd been under Rowena's spell, violence worming through his grace like a cancer, rotting it from the inside out. Blood misted the air around him—from Crowley, from those angels…from Dean. All with his hands. He'd hurt so many…

Lina started licking his face frantically, breaking through some of the thrall. Castiel heard Dean's voice sounding far away, calling to him.

" _Cas? Cas!_ "

He blinked, the specters of his vision melting away into the bunker's garage. Lina licked under his chin and whimpered, and then Dean's hands were cupping his face, turning his head up to meet worried hazel eyes.

"Cas? You back?"

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak and potentially shatter the illusion of relief. Or maybe it was real; he was still feeling a bit fuzzy.

"What happened?" Dean asked, glancing down.

Castiel followed his gaze; his palm was still bleeding all over the floor. His pulse leaped. "I'm sorry. It was an accident…I didn't…I promised you I wouldn't…" He waved his injured hand at the car. "I was working, and there was something sharp."

Dean caught his wrist before he could fling more blood around. "Okay, okay, just take it easy. I believe you." He turned Castiel's palm up to examine the wound. "We need to clean it out. Who knows what crud is caked underneath there." Dean frowned. "Uh, your grace is strong enough you don't need a tetanus shot, right?"

Castiel stared at him in a moment of incomprehension. Dean wasn't angry?

"If it's treated," he said, voice more gravelly than usual. "I won't be susceptible to infection."

"Okay, good. Come on." Dean pushed himself off the floor, and then gripped Castiel's elbow to haul him up too.

Lina weaved in and out between them as they headed inside to the kitchen. Dean ushered him into a chair, and then went to retrieve the first aid supplies. Lina plopped down at Castiel's feet, head tilted up at him. He focused on her wide, watery eyes instead of the blood painted across his hand.

Dean returned and set out the supplies with well-practiced efficiency. Castiel hissed when the antiseptic swept over the cut, but Dean only tightened his grip to keep Castiel from pulling his hand away.

"What were you doing working on the car so late?" he asked mildly, gaze fixed on his work.

Castiel tried not to watch. "I couldn't sleep."

Dean glanced up for a brief moment before returning to wiping up the blood. He gave the laceration a considering look. "I could stitch it, but you still heal pretty quickly. Think just a bandage will be okay?"

Castiel nodded, and Dean reached for the roll of gauze. The thoughtful look on the hunter's face as he wrapped the wound seemed too deep to be about the act of bandaging, and Castiel tried not to fidget in discomfort.

"You having nightmares?" Dean finally asked.

Castiel stiffened. "How did you know?"

Dean gave him a wry half-smile. "Personal experience."

Oh, of course.

Dean gathered up the bloodied wipes and got up to dump them in the trash. Then he walked over to the coffee maker and turned it on. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

Dean didn't say anything for a minute, just watched the coffee machine whir as the water in the reservoir heated. When it was ready, he pushed the button to brew. "Lately I dream I'm still wearing the Mark."

Castiel looked up in surprise.

"It's been a year," Dean continued, not looking at him. "But sometimes it feels like it was yesterday. In those moments when I lost it…" He gave himself a small shake, and busied his hands with getting mugs out of the cupboard, then pouring the brewed coffee.

Castiel rolled his shoulder as Dean set one cup in front of him, and then slid into the next seat over. Dean didn't say anything more, just sipped gradually from his mug.

"I…" Castiel started. "It was Lucifer this time."

Dean set his cup down. "Yeah?"

"When he was possessing me…it was burning through my vessel." Castiel wrapped his hands around his mug, wincing as the heat seeped into his raw wound. "I told you he mostly left me alone, and that was true. But there was that one time…"

"After you stopped him from killing Sam."

Castiel nodded, and took a quick sip to help dissolve the lump forming in his throat. "They're just dreams, and yet they feel so real."

Dean nodded in understanding.

Castiel swallowed. "Do…do they stop?"

He shrugged. "They happen less often, with less intensity."

Castiel's shoulders sagged in disappointment. At least he had Lina there to wake him up. He cast a grateful glance down at the dog, still sitting by his leg. Then he quirked a perplexed brow at Dean, who Castiel realized was wearing a plain shirt and sweatpants from sleeping. "How did you know to come to the garage?"

Dean nodded to the dog. "She came and woke me up. I almost threw my pillow at her, but the sound she was making…I just knew." Dean leaned over to rub her head. "She's not so bad to have around, is she?"

Castiel looked at Lina again, whose eyes were closed and mouth parted happily as Dean scratched behind her ear. He felt a measure of relief from this feeling of being surrounded by family.

"No, she's not," he agreed fondly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say Cas is doing much better, though you can't expect things to always be perfect. Only one more chapter after this! As always, it's sad for a story to come to a close, but I'm excited for the other fics I have lined up.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam looked up from his reading as Dean and Cas came in from the garage, both of them covered in grease up to their elbows. It was good to see Cas so involved in the car's repairs; Sam had doubted the angel would take this much interest in mechanics, though it probably had more to do with spending time with Dean. And that was good, but Sam started thinking Cas should also have a hobby of his own, something he enjoyed doing that was _his_.

So while Dean hopped in the shower (Cas could still mojo grime away on himself), Sam joined Cas in the kitchen where the angel was going through the cupboards to pick out the fixings for that night's dinner.

"You like working on the car, Cas?" he asked, taking a seat at the table.

"It's challenging," Cas replied. He stared at a box of bread crumbs before setting it on the counter. "But in a good way. I…like being occupied."

Sam nodded. He'd noticed Cas had a harder time when he was idle, with nothing but memories and his own thoughts to focus on. He figured that was why Cas had started helping them cook, though it didn't seem like something he really enjoyed, as Cas served more as an assistant to Dean rather than taking initiative when it came to recipes.

"I think it's great," Sam continued. "I never really got into the car stuff as much as Dean, and I'm sure he's thrilled to have someone to share it with."

"He does become quite enthusiastic," Cas agreed.

Sam smiled. "Yeah, I nerd out when I get to chat with fellow bookworms." Charlie had been great for that, and Sam felt a pang of grief at her absence. There was Eileen, too, whom Sam hadn't contacted in a while, what with everything going on. He should reach out soon.

Sam cleared his throat. "What about you? What do you get excited about doing?"

Cas turned around with a frown. "What do you mean?"

"I know you like spending time with me and Dean, helping us with our hobbies. But I've been thinking, what's something _you_ like to do?"

Cas's brow furrowed further. "I don't understand the question. Like you said, I enjoy spending time here, with you and Dean."

"Yeah, I know, but…" Sam floundered, trying to figure out how to clarify his meaning. "So, Dean will help with research if it's needed, but it's not something he's passionate about. I could spend hours in the library and lose track of time because I enjoy it, just like Dean can in the garage working on cars."

Cas canted his head in confusion. "I was able to do that with Netflix. Well, before. Not lately. Unless it's a particularly fascinating show."

Sam pursed his mouth. This was not going the way he'd hoped. "Uh, watching TV isn't really a hobby. I'm talking about something you actively engage in. Have you ever had something like that?"

Cas's frown deepened, and he leaned back against the counter, palms braced on the edges. "I've…always been a soldier. There was never really much time for anything else."

Sam hadn't really thought about that. He and Dean had spent most of their adult lives hunting, fighting, but before that, they'd had the foundation of childhood, as screwed up as it may have been, to help them form things like passions and pastimes. Sure, there wasn't always much time to indulge in them, but they were still there.

"What about further back?" he asked. "I know you were always a soldier, but what about before the fighting started, when you were just watching earth? Wasn't there anything you also did, just because you wanted to? Or anything you watched humans do that you thought was interesting and might like to try for yourself?"

Maybe Cas needed to experiment to find something he enjoyed.

Cas was quite for several long moments, gaze lowered in deep thought. Sam almost broke in with a list of suggestions, but bit his tongue and tried to keep his patience a little longer.

"Well," Cas began, hesitantly, almost shyly. "I…used to enjoy painting the sky with clouds and various spectrums."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "You mean, like sunsets and stuff?" That put a whole new spin on skies awash with brilliant colors and swirling cloud formations.

"And dawns. The condensation in the air and refraction of light happens naturally, of course, but I would often fly across the horizon, shifting it to what I wanted." He ducked his gaze with an actual blush then. "It was vain, to create something on that scale. Vanity has always been my problem."

Sam quickly shook his head. "It's not vain, Cas. It's…self-expression. There's nothing wrong with that."

"There was for an angel. Lucifer tried to create things—demons. Tried to put himself on God's level."

"You are nothing like Lucifer," Sam said sharply. "And you know what I think? God was the master creator of everything. Don't you think it makes sense that his children would also have that inclination? Look at humanity and all the things we've done. We're driven to create. Maybe most angels didn't feel that, so I guess that means you're a closer reflection of your father than any of them ever were."

Cas's face scrunched up. "I'm not sure whether that should be taken as a compliment or flaw."

Sam huffed out an exasperated breath. "It's a compliment, Cas."

The angel shrugged. "It doesn't matter, in any case. My wings are broken. I will never fly again, or paint the sky."

Sam tensed up. Crap, he hadn't even thought about that. "Is there anything we can do to fix them? A spell or something?"

Cas shook his head sorrowfully. "No. Every angel's wings were damaged in the Fall. Perhaps a collective effort could provide such healing, one at a time over an extended period. But I am no longer welcome in Heaven." He turned back to rifle through the cupboards some more.

Sam watched him contemplatively. Cas already had so much to deal with, including his weakened grace, and his wings would be forever broken too? Sam stiffened at his next thought. "Cas, they're not hurting you, are they?"

Cas paused to flick him a soft look. "No, Sam, they don't hurt. I…I actually don't feel them anymore." He inhaled sharply. "Please don't be concerned about it. I came to terms with the state of my wings a long time ago. They're not even the worst scar to come out of everything."

And didn't that just speak volumes.

Dean strode in a few moments later, and Cas turned his attention to helping prepare dinner. At least he didn't seem to be hiding any hint of despondency over his wings, though that made Sam's heart ache in a different way. Cas had lost so much; Sam wanted to give him back as much as they could.

That night, he got out his laptop and ordered a sketchbook and set of colored pencils.

* * *

Dean slouched back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table, a slice of pie in front of him and a beer in one hand. He hadn't felt this truly relaxed in…well, _years_. Not since before the Mark. And that was a sobering thought that almost cast a dour shade over his mood, but Dean refused to let it. Things were good. Cas and Sam were sitting at the other end of the table, heads bowed over some obscure tome they'd found in the Men of Letters archive. Both of them looked as at ease as Dean felt. Cas's panic attacks and flashbacks were fewer and farther between, and he came out of them quicker with Lina's help. Dean never would have believed he'd be so grateful to have a dog in the bunker.

Cas had started sleeping more regularly, too. He said he didn't need to, but it helped his vessel. Dean would check on him most nights, since he was already in the habit of waking up several times from his own sleep challenges. Sometimes Cas would be sleeping restfully with Lina curled up at his feet; sometimes Dean would see signs of him having a nightmare, and he'd carefully wake him. They'd sit in the dark, the shadows offering a modicum of privacy in concealing the emotions they couldn't keep off their faces, and talk about each of their experiences. That was another thing Dean had never thought he'd do willingly, but he had to admit that in his effort to help Cas, he started helping himself a bit, too.

They hadn't resumed hunting yet, but Dean wasn't in a hurry on that. They weren't retired, that was for sure, but they'd get to it in due time. When all three of them were in a headspace that would keep them from doing something stupid and risking the world again.

Dean speared a bite of pie with his fork and put it in his mouth, eyes closing in bliss. It had never tasted so good.

The clack of claws on concrete announced Lina scampering into the library, and Dean looked over as the lab trotted around to face him—and dropped one of his shoes from her mouth. He bolted upright. "Sam!"

Sam and Cas whipped their heads up.

"What?" Sam exclaimed.

Dean jabbed a finger at the mutt. "Keep your dog away from my shoes!"

Sam frowned as he looked at Lina, and then he started coughing into his fist in what suspiciously sounded like laughter. "Uh, well, Cas is the one who speaks dog."

Dean shot the angel a withering look as though it were his fault. Lina opened her mouth in a wide yawn that ended with a gurgle.

Cas tilted his head. "She says she wants you to play with her, Dean."

Dean arched an incredulous brow. "You can play with her."

Lina whimpered, and Cas turned to look at him.

"She prefers you this time."

His jaw slackened in disbelief. "Well, the answer is _no_."

Lina let out a grumbly ruff, and then snatched up Dean's shoe again and bolted from the library.

"Hey!" He surged out of his chair and was about to go after the mongrel, when the sound of laughter distracted him. Sam had thrown himself back in his chair, guffawing like a buffoon, which was to be expected. But it was the quieter ring of chuckling coming from Cas that made Dean stop.

That was a sound he hadn't heard in a long while, and at times thought he might never hear again. Cas caught Dean staring at him and tried to stop, but his shoulders only shook harder and his mouth quirked with an uncontainable smile. Damn, that was good to see. And Dean hoped to see it more often.

But he was not sacrificing more shoes to make it happen.

"Get back here, you mutt!" he shouted, and headed for the hallway. "Alright, you win!"

His anger was a show, of course, and as he stormed away, he couldn't help but grin at the sound of two voices laughing behind him.

* * *

Castiel closed the door to his room behind him as he turned in for the night. Lina bounded up on the bed and plopped down, hanging her head over the edge. Castiel had chastised her for stealing Dean's shoe, and she'd apologized, though it'd had a smug ring to it. Nevertheless, she ceased that behavior, which Castiel was grateful for. He didn't want Dean to kick her out.

Yet…Castiel wasn't really afraid of that happening. They had all formed a kind of unit, one he didn't think easily breakable. Not anymore. As the weeks had gone by, Castiel found himself settling into life at the bunker with a rooted assurance of belonging. It still stunned him sometimes, the depths of devotion Sam and Dean had and continued to show him. Only in his most secret desires had he ever hoped to truly be part of their family. But it had happened, by nature and design, by the circumstances they had all been thrown into and the intentionality of picking up the pieces afterward.

Castiel walked past the sketches plastered across his wall—still lifes and landscapes, portraits of Sam, Dean, and Lina. He stopped at the dresser and opened the middle drawer. The blood had been washed out of the dress shirt a while ago, but Castiel had not bothered to fix the tears, either the ones he'd made with the angel blade, or the ones in the suit jacket and coat from the werewolf.

Castiel pulled the articles out now and unfolded them, rubbing the familiar fabric between his fingers. His grace was stable now that he'd settled into a rhythm of proper eating and resting, and there were several minor things he could afford to expend it on, such as mending clothes.

But fixing these was no small matter, not to him. They represented a life of hardship and pain, of struggle and his slow, or sometimes fast, fall from grace. This outfit was stitched into his sense of identity, but one that he had lost. Castiel had slowly been building himself back up, but was he recovering something old, or becoming something new? He wasn't entirely sure.

However, that was the other thing about the trench coat—it had more or less witnessed all the myriad of changes he had undergone since his time coming to earth. There were bad memories, but also good. He could no more escape them by shedding these clothes than he could his own skin.

Perhaps it was time to embrace the scars. Castiel had told Sam as much when it came to his wings. Lifting his other hand to wave across the rips, Castiel mended the torn seams. In an eye blink, the clothes were as good as new.

But he wasn't, not quite yet. Castiel gingerly folded the articles again and put them back in the drawer. At least now they were ready for when he would be.

That night, Castiel dreamed of painting the sky in bursts of color and stardust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say Cas is fully on the mend. ^_^ Final shout-out to 29Pieces for beta reading! And thank you to all you wonderful readers who make this worthwhile. :) Next up, a Cas & Crowley fic full of humor and whump. Also watch for a one-shot I'll be posting on Wednesday. And if anyone's interested in what stories are coming down the line, I'll be keeping my profile updated with a list of upcoming fics.


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